tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44067919443144779702017-08-17T09:28:56.462+01:00Girl in the French BaguetteMontana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-3193881386820700692015-08-31T14:40:00.004+01:002015-08-31T16:28:23.649+01:00Awkward encounters at train stationsPicture this:<br /><div><br />You're standing by the ticket machine at London Liverpool Street, minding your own business, tapping away at your phone, when a guy comes up to you.<br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"Excuse me, I don't mean to bother you but..."</span><br /><br />Cue brain vomit: *Ugh, he wants my money? Wait, no, he's wearing a smart suit...not exactly your classic tramp. Maybe he wants to know the time? He's lost? What the hell does he want from me?*<br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"...you look lovely, and your glasses are so cool."</span></div><div><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pC_rVhktAYw/VeQ8kVWYAOI/AAAAAAAABSQ/24KRBuljQgk/s1600/awkward%2Btutrt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pC_rVhktAYw/VeQ8kVWYAOI/AAAAAAAABSQ/24KRBuljQgk/s1600/awkward%2Btutrt.jpg" /></a>Me (probably blushing at this point):<span style="color: #6aa84f;">&nbsp;"erm, thank you?"</span><br /><br />Before I know it, Mr. Stranger (who is probably in his early twenties) starts talking to me properly. I panic. Is he trying to distract me so that his accomplice can sneak his hand into my bag and pull out my wallet? I watch my bag like a hawk. He probably thinks I'm one of those socially incompetent people that can't hold eye contact.<br /><span style="color: blue;"><br />"So where are you from?"</span>&nbsp;he blurts out.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Essex."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"You're very well spoken for someone from Essex,"&nbsp;</span>he continues.<br /><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"How original. We don't all sound like we're straight out of TOWIE."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"Did you purposefully match your eyes and jacket?"&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Yes, yes that was on purpose. I decided to put my khaki green contact lenses in today. You're the first person to notice!"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"Really? That's amazing!"</span><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><br />"Sorry, that was a joke...ya...err...I just like the colour green."</span>&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>*awkward silence*</div><div><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: blue;">"So what's your name?"</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Montana"</span></div><div><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: blue;">"HAHAHAHAHA, what like Hannah Montana?"&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div><div>*never heard that one before*</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Or the state."</span></div><div><br />Conversation continues. I discover he works in food, and that he had a brief stint at the University of Bristol. That's all I caught. Oh, and he wants to work at PWC.<br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><br />"Oh cool, my best friend works there,"&nbsp;</span>I chime.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>*most pointless conversation ever*<br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"So, can I get your number?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Uhmm, I er, um, boyfriend, he, I, my...I have a boyfriend,"&nbsp;</span>I stumble.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>*classic Pinocchio moment*<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m5TAdvrcbUk/VeRcx8L9gkI/AAAAAAAABSk/0K6lBG6CRC0/s1600/hot%2Bsingle%2Bfriends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m5TAdvrcbUk/VeRcx8L9gkI/AAAAAAAABSk/0K6lBG6CRC0/s320/hot%2Bsingle%2Bfriends.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: blue;">"Ah, okay, I get it. Well, you don't by any chance..."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"...have any hot single friends I can set you up with? Nope, really sorry."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"How did you guess I was going to ask?"</span><br /><br />*rolls eyes*&nbsp;</div><div><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Oh you know, degree in mind reading."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"But seriously...you don't have any hot single friends?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Nope, sorry. I'm not going to just give you their numbers anyway."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"Haha, that's not what I was asking! That would be so creepy."</span><br /><br />*And you're not being creepy right now?*<br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><br />"Anyway, most of them are taken. I also tend to choose friends that are less attractive than me, so that I can feel better about myself."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"Really?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Yea, really."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"Oh my God."</span></div><div><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div><div>*this guy doesn't understand sarcasm*<br /><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"That, that was a joke. You know, it was supposed to be funny..."&nbsp;</span></div><div><br /></div><div>*fake laugh*<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ILKpC8Kplxg/VeRcCnB9jOI/AAAAAAAABSc/wjUgKes-ziI/s1600/hello%2Bstranger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ILKpC8Kplxg/VeRcCnB9jOI/AAAAAAAABSc/wjUgKes-ziI/s320/hello%2Bstranger.jpg" width="201" /></a><span style="color: blue;">"Haha, right, yes, of course. I couldn't tell if you were joking or not..."</span></div><div><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Erm, yea, I was. That would be pretty weird."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"I don't know though, you were pretty convincing."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Anyway, great to meet you, I should probably catch my train. Have a good weekend."</span><br /><br />*handshake*<br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"You have a great handshake."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Well, you know, nothing worse than a limp handshake."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"My dog just died...do you want to see a picture?"</span></div><div><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div><div>*takes my phone and goes onto his Facebook page to show me his dead dog*<br /><br /><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Oh gosh, so sorry to hear that."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">"Yea."</span><br /><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span><span style="color: #6aa84f;">"Yea. I guess that's worse than a limp&nbsp;handshake."</span></div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-17775608637927002022015-08-30T18:29:00.000+01:002015-08-30T18:54:19.523+01:001000 word rant about the tube<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l5fgd2qa4CE/VeM4V_yXLsI/AAAAAAAABRg/rO9196B8fPI/s1600/rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l5fgd2qa4CE/VeM4V_yXLsI/AAAAAAAABRg/rO9196B8fPI/s320/rain.jpg" width="212" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It's a truth universally acknowledged that Londoners have two favourite topics of conversation, particularly when it comes to small talk: the weather and transport. (I can vouch for this too because an Italian once told me his teacher warned him in class.) &nbsp;But that's not stopping me from writing a blog dedicated to the latter. Yep, I'm going to delve into the beauty (read horror) of taking a tube in the capital.</div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I read an article last week in the Evening Standard about how tube fares in London are something like 25 per cent more expensive than the next most expensive city, Washington D.C. That, frankly, is outrageous. For that sort of price difference I'd expect TfL to provide leather seats, a real-time cleaning service, a free kindle (actually wait, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/16/technology/inside-amazon-wrestling-big-ideas-in-a-bruising-workplace.html?_r=0" target="_blank">I've boycotted Amazon</a>), air-con, and at least a few inches of personal space. But I sense I'm hedging my bets slightly. Seriously though, what is with the sky high prices?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">While summer has come and almost gone with not so much as a passing "hey, how are you?", I <i>have </i>noticed that the tubes have been marginally quieter. Emphasis on marginally. I suppose that's because in August most Britons bugger off somewhere warm, to escape the notoriously wet month. Yep, you saw those flood warnings for the bank holiday weekend...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But the very slender decline in human presence on the tube this summer hasn't necessarily been a blessing. It just means you're more likely to actually get on a train, rather than sulk impatiently behind the yellow line as a handful of trains pass with zero possibility of plunging yourself into the throng of people already trapped inside. And breathe. That was a long sentence.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_dV8pvT9gmk/VeM4lF_8RGI/AAAAAAAABRo/lnvGRGbK5ow/s1600/underground.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_dV8pvT9gmk/VeM4lF_8RGI/AAAAAAAABRo/lnvGRGbK5ow/s320/underground.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And you know it's summer when you start to notice a rise in armpit sweat patches, fringes glued to foreheads with perspiration, and faces dripping with grease. Your copy of Metro is starting to wilt, and you struggle to turn the pages with your moist fingers. You feel sweat trickling down your forehead, and wipe it away with you clammy hands, absentmindedly splashing a greyish black smudge of ink across your face. And no-one tells you, not even your colleagues when you get to work, because that's not a British thing to do. Either way, one would be forgiven for thinking you'd spent the morning in the mines.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A stifling smell of sweat mixed with toxic levels of anti-perspirant suddenly becomes apparent. You begin to sniff out the culprit before realising that everyone around you is clinging onto the handrails above them, armpits galore. Get me out of this hell hole fast, you think.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Someone coughs. A wave of panic rises up inside you. What diseases am I going to wake up with tomorrow? And now a sneeze. And another one. And another one. Ebola. Wearing a face mask might not be such a bad idea. Someone yawns. A stench of last night's alcohol mixed with bitter coffee wafts your way. Death seems close.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There's space further inside the carriage, but no-one wants to budge to make room. Just a hoard of selfish commuters, too transfixed on their copies of Metro, Stylist or Time Out, or reading the latest scandals on Mail Online in between stations whenever there's WiFi. Then there are the women intent on slapping on a face of make-up and curling their eye lashes (I keep waiting for the tube to come to a sudden halt and for poor Tracy to realise she's pulled out a clump of them.)&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">While those starting their commutes in Greater London secure prime standing ground (i.e. the row between the seats), the rest of us squeeze into the remaining nooks and crannies available, struggling to even stand up straight. Reading the news at this point seems farcical as turning the pages of Metro (which at this point I've already folded into quarters to make space for) would only result in the suffocation of the person in front of you.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1eWTfTOfKCQ/VeM5Chb2hQI/AAAAAAAABRw/Fgvq-C9ytJo/s1600/different%2Btubes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1eWTfTOfKCQ/VeM5Chb2hQI/AAAAAAAABRw/Fgvq-C9ytJo/s1600/different%2Btubes.jpg" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">This is why I particularly hate the Northern line, because it takes the word "cramped" to unprecedented levels. As men and women of all shapes and sizes propel themselves at full speed into the battery cag<strike>e</strike>, elbowing and shoving like there's no tomorrow, I really do question why I'm even attempting the journey.</div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In fact, I remember reading an article on Time Out about a year ago, ranking the tube lines from best to worst. The Northern line had one of the worst, if not the worst, rating. Surely it couldn't be THAT bad, I thought, as I signed the contract for a flat in Clapham. How ignorant and disillusioned I was.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But now that I'm living a couple stops further south in Tooting Bec, I'm one of the lucky few that can actually get on the train, without waiting for 10 to go past (yes, that happened to me in Clapham). At Balham, you're just about safe. Clapham South, you have to start being strategic about where you stand on the platform. Clapham Common, well, don't bother if you want to arrive at work on time. Clapham North? You're an idiot. Walk to Stockwell.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In London, we pay a staggering £144.80 a month for zones 1-3, and £123.30 for zones 1-2. In Paris, I paid €60 for use of the entire metro system, which currently works out as £43.58. That makes us £100 worse off a month in London. I'm not very good at maths, but I reckon that's quite a few Gin &amp; Tonics.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-64053753012427114222015-03-07T12:34:00.004+00:002015-03-07T12:50:53.117+00:00A date with a drug-dealer, feminism, and other tales<div style="text-align: justify;">In my second year at university, I worked behind the bar at a local pub in Exeter, owned by my landlords. I only worked Sundays but it was a good way to earn a little pocket money (i.e. purchase all that expensive cheese I can't get enough of). But first, let me paint a picture for you. The average clientele on a Sunday afternoon was (and still is, I’m sure) over 60, male, and - in want of a better phrase - touchy-feely. They’d pinch my bottom as I walked past them, or peer lasciviously at my chest. My appearance was the hot topic of conversation; as much as I’d love to say it’s because I look like Gisele Bündchen, let’s get real here. I couldn’t work out whether I loved the attention, or despised the leering audacity. I forgave them because they were old, which in my mind made it OK. But was it? And they weren’t the only ones…</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Some cricketers came into the pub one evening and descended on the bar like a pack of hungry wolves. Looking at me like I was their prize, they came to an agreement: “she’s an 8 out of 10.” And they told me. They asked to shake my hand, congratulating me on my ‘achievement’. After all, 8 out of 10 was a ‘respectable’ score. "Wow, lucky me", I thought. They vocally measured up my chest size in front of me, and each took it in turns to ask for my phone number.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--y_QBktOzvM/VPXjiiueWlI/AAAAAAAABNg/0GTbWqZyhP8/s1600/lies.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F--y_QBktOzvM%2FVPXjiiueWlI%2FAAAAAAAABNg%2F0GTbWqZyhP8%2Fs1600%2Flies.jpg&amp;container=blogger&amp;gadget=a&amp;rewriteMime=image%2F*" width="306" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was even asked on a couple dates by some younger, local pub-goers. And when I say younger, I mean “are you even potty trained?” First there was Charlie*. Charlie initially liked me to believe that he was 18. Moreover, Charlie was evidently very much of the opinion that age is only a number, which must be why he kept on changing it. I can only assume this was because he thought I had the memory of a goldfish and wouldn't latch on. After the youngster chatted me up in the pub, he managed to find me on Facebook (the woes of being the only Montana in a billion mile radius), and decided to add me. Of course I rejected his inquiry into my personal life, but that didn’t stop me investigating. It didn’t take long for me to notice that the boy’s Facebook profile clearly stated he was only 17.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The next time Charlie came into the pub, asking for a pint, I stopped him in his tracks. “Can I see some ID please?” I snarled. He paused. When - out of curiosity at his response - I asked him what year he was born, he stammered “errr…well, ummm…err, March..13th..1990?” A year which would have meant he was over a year older than me, and much older than the 18 years he’d claimed to be on our first encounter. All very confusing I know. Rule no. 1 boys: learn how to add and subtract if you want to ask a girl out on a date.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It also transpired that a couple other local men at the pub, slightly closer to my age, were keen to sweep me off my feet (#desperatetimes). I was warned that one of them was “trouble”, and the other had kids (I know how to attract ‘em). The father-of-two invited me to watch a movie at his (Sleeping Beauty or Bambi?) which I politely declined, while the former invited me to a grotty pub with him for a drink. In a “I knew you were trouble” (courtesy of Tay-Tay aka Taylor Swift) moment, I naively accepted his request. We got there and sat down on a sofa, and probably spoke about something inconsequential. Not long after, a man and woman walked in and 'Mr Trouble' got up and said to me “I’ll be back in a minute”. The couple came to sit opposite me and, assuming they were friends of my newfound buddy, I extended my hand to them and introduced myself. I noticed that the guy held my hand strangely, as if I were trying to pass something to him. I remember thinking it was odd. Then 'Mr Trouble' came back to his seat with a rucksack. In a flash, I noticed that the couple opposite me were getting up to leave and there was a £20 note by my heel which was quickly tucked into a jacket pocket. In a split second, there had been a scandalous operation happening right under my very nose. I demanded immediately, "Did you just deal drugs in front of me?” Defensively he said, “Is that a problem? I respect the fact that you don’t deal drugs, so you should respect the fact that I do.” That was genuinely his response. Dumbfounded, I downed my drink and made an excuse to leave.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-189ssSCVaTk/VPXktxPSkBI/AAAAAAAABN0/baxB0QFqWp0/s1600/poppies.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-189ssSCVaTk%2FVPXktxPSkBI%2FAAAAAAAABN0%2FbaxB0QFqWp0%2Fs1600%2Fpoppies.jpg&amp;container=blogger&amp;gadget=a&amp;rewriteMime=image%2F*" width="233" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve already mentioned in a previous post my experience with a <a href="http://girl-french-cravatte.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/cheating-husbands-i-was-almost-other.html#comment-form">lying gym manager who hid the fact that he was married with kids</a>, harassed me and stole personal data from my gym membership. So it’s probably time I told you about the guy I met at university who lied to me about having cancer. Yep, you read that right. Lied about having cancer. Given that someone is diagnosed with cancer every two minutes in the UK, it’s not something to joke about. Pretending you have cancer to win the affections of a girl - seriously? And it got even worse when I ultimately rejected his advances, so in bitter retaliation he branded me a “whore”. People I hadn’t even met before were labelling me a “bitch” who “liked to sleep around”, because I’d hurt the ego of a guy I didn’t fancy who’d lied about having cancer. Since when was this OK? At the time, he told me he was going to die and that he probably wouldn’t last the year. He told me that he was going for chemotherapy treatment, and that he needed moral support. It wasn’t until a couple years later when talking to a mutual friend that I found out it was all one massive lie, and he’d used the same deception on another unsuspecting victim.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So why have I written all this? Because countless women are in the habit of degrading themselves, of letting themselves be defined by the wrong things and the wrong people. So many women somehow inadvertently accept that they are inferior to men, and don't question the way they are treated. This must stop.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iTSGnHtnzcY/VPrxztozD2I/AAAAAAAABOo/KV4IpP3yWo8/s1600/heforshe.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iTSGnHtnzcY/VPrxztozD2I/AAAAAAAABOo/KV4IpP3yWo8/s1600/heforshe.png" height="151" width="320" /></a>And finally, women: don't ever think that the greatest praise you can receive is a man telling you that you're "hot", because that's no achievement at all. If looking beautiful on the outside is all you think you can or should achieve in life, then you are truly undervaluing yourself.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">#heforshe</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">*Not his real name</div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-21292283650846593662014-10-01T17:19:00.002+01:002014-10-01T20:33:33.032+01:00Bangkok, Tuk-tuks and Scams<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Kl87DflQbRw/VCwntwL8TLI/AAAAAAAABMg/d3XCk5bEge0/s1600/P1090353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Kl87DflQbRw/VCwntwL8TLI/AAAAAAAABMg/d3XCk5bEge0/s1600/P1090353.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>Arriving in Bangkok was quite extraordinary. My first impression was that their driving "skills" are something to be desired. Apparently there are no rules when it comes to driving there. <i>No rules at all.&nbsp;</i>Overtaking can be done whenever and however. You know those sneaky drivers who weave in and out of cars on the motorway and you just want to throttle them? Welcome to Thailand. Hard shoulders are driven on quite freely, and there is apparently <i>no&nbsp;correct lane</i> to use, whether you're turning left or right - you just sneak in at the last minute. In the UK we'd call that selfish, in Thailand they'd call it efficient. In fact, such a move in the UK would be lethal, and you would rightly endure the wrath and death glares of other drivers. Drivers in Thailand on the other hand will cut each other up like it's no big deal. Sometimes I felt like we were going sideways more than we were actually moving forwards. It was like being inside a video game - helloooo Mario Kart - and a three year old kid was controlling the gears. That's how crazy it was. Yet their ability to whiz in and out in such meticulous fashion without crashing is quite remarkable, and would suggest that my "three year old kid" analogy was quite wrong. Naturally I had to hold on quite tightly to my possessions (you can never trust people driving past on scooters, ready to pluck an iPhone from your hand whilst you take a photo of some temple or other).<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bbuy_IYQDfw/VCwpa_Hr_hI/AAAAAAAABM4/apiDSR9Rc1o/s1600/tuktuk.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bbuy_IYQDfw/VCwpa_Hr_hI/AAAAAAAABM4/apiDSR9Rc1o/s1600/tuktuk.png" height="239" width="320" /></a>This was my first experience in a tuk-tuk, and certainly one I wouldn't forget. I soon learnt that it all begins with a price negotiation (I've got better at this over time). It usually goes something like this: I pretend to look outraged at the initial sum they demand, and immediately halve it. The driver looks incredibly offended and contorts his face into a "are you effin' kidding me?" whilst you threaten to take the next tuk-tuk that comes along instead. Begrudgingly, he concedes to your close-fistedness, hoping to squeeze an extra 20 baht out of you. You look at him, stupefied, repeating 80 baht to him so many times that he finally relents.&nbsp;<i>&nbsp;Bloody foreigners, </i>he thinks.&nbsp;But he probably hasn't given a ride for the past 3 hours. I can't work out if my haggling makes me an awful person. The price he is offering is cheap by UK standards, but then you're not exactly paying for comfort, (or aircon I might add). And everything in Thailand is cheaper, anyway. Many of them are also sponsored by questionable tailors, jewellers and fake tourist agencies.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZcvvGGh9krg/VCwon2IJnmI/AAAAAAAABMs/2aYBqlAk1Sc/s1600/emporium.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZcvvGGh9krg/VCwon2IJnmI/AAAAAAAABMs/2aYBqlAk1Sc/s1600/emporium.png" height="166" width="320" /></a>On one journey, my friend Jaz and I were headed to Chatuchak market, but the tuk-tuk driver insisted on taking us to one of his sponsors. We complained, but to no avail. Apparently that was the price for haggling so profoundly. We owed it to him. "Go inside and spend 10, 15 minutes", he told us. We stood outside Emporium Armani, surrounded by derelict buildings and mangy dogs. A classy place for such a classy brand. Something's not quite right. But wait..shouldn't it be Empori<b>o</b> Armani? <i>Click.&nbsp;</i>We stood outside the shop, scared for our lives, and peeked in nervously. Automatically we were shuffled in by owners and shop assistants. Was this all part of a larger plan to kill us? Does that door in the corner lead to a dungeon? These were thoughts going through my head at the time. However, they proceeded to throw fabrics at us left, right and centre. What if they smothered me with them? <i>Must keep my cool. </i>Apparently I <i>had </i>to buy a pashmina. "Today, good price. Cheap, cheap", he motioned to me in broken English. Once the fear that they'd lock us up in some back room and throw a bag over our heads had subsided, I merrily (maybe a slight exaggeration) waved my hand through all the shirts, suits, and scarves on offer, stopping at some shiny ties, before grabbing Jaz's hand and leaving. The tuk-tuk driver seemed somewhat annoyed that we'd spent little more than 2 minutes in his sponsor's shop, and that we'd come away empty handed. His commission wouldn't be good that day.<br /><br />I was slowly being introduced to the scams, cons, and trickery prevalent in Thailand.</div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-49264858646873403622014-08-11T18:54:00.001+01:002014-10-01T11:41:22.918+01:00I'm Not A Real Person Yet<div style="text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SR7hwbx8TFQ/U-j-DBIDXiI/AAAAAAAABMI/wRikixjpkfE/s1600/unemployed.jpg" height="571" width="640" /><br /><br />So after a 4 month hiatus, I'm back on the blogosphere. Maybe that's because I’ve only recently recovered from writing my dissertation (a harrowing phase of my life which included multiple breakdowns, but also produced the mildly successful hit "Dissy's Done" à la Frozen), spent too much time revising for French exams (pfft as if), or because I ran out of things to say. Or maybe because I only have £4 in my current bank account (or any account for that matter), and I'm contemplating my life as an impoverished, out of work graduate, with as much life direction as a tangled slinky. Oh, and I just got fined £8 by Barclays because my phone bill bounced (too poor to afford it you see). That’s the price for being a pauper.<br /><br />But enough with the excuses.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's ironic perhaps that I wrote my dissertation on American independent filmmaker Noah Baumbach, because he's a sucker for this anxious-ridden phase of life. On my year abroad in Gay Pareeee, I saw his film <i>Frances Ha</i> (a B&amp;W film starring the tantalising Greta Gerwig) and Adam Driver (think HBO/Lena Dunham's&nbsp;<i>Girls</i>). It was this film alone which made me decide to write a whole 8,000 words on the filmmaker, despite having never seen his other films. In retrospect however, I probably should have written on Woody Allen, or someone a little more mainstream. It was a Love/Hate relationship, leaning more towards the latter. Turns out the secondary criticism on Baumbach was sparser than the hair on the Duke of Edinburgh's head. Oh well, it turned out all right in the end, despite not being able to eat for a whole week before it was due in. No mean feat given I'm a massive foodie. The burger I treated myself to after dissertation hand-in made every gland in my body salivate. I’m joking. That's disgusting.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bjoGJKAG7YI/U-j75dBaG9I/AAAAAAAABLw/80vrh9T50Is/s1600/embarrrrr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bjoGJKAG7YI/U-j75dBaG9I/AAAAAAAABLw/80vrh9T50Is/s1600/embarrrrr.jpg" height="195" width="400" /></a></div>Baumbach's "niche" is struggling twenty-somethings (although sometimes older), stuck in that place between youth and adulthood, whilst refusing to grow up and take on responsibility. “How much longer can I act like a child? Am I still allowed to whinge and moan about trivial matters?” ask confused twenty-somethings. Except more commonly, he/she is unaware of his/her lack of maturity, so probably never gets round to asking such pertinent questions. When I broke down at lunch the other day (“My youth is over ” I lamented), my mum criticised me for acting like my life was already over. "Your life hasn't even begun yet" she muttered, shrewdly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was told throughout my teens that university would encompass the "best years of my life", and that I should make the most of it. Now that university is over, and the fear of long-term unemployment has kicked in, I can't help but think that it all goes downhill from here. No more mid-afternoon coffees in Exeter's many cafés, nor weekly shopping trips, late nights in mangy clubs, lie-ins, or hitting up the gym whenever I feel like it. My 8 hour week of studying will eventually be replaced with the structure of an 8 hour working day, 5 days a week. My evenings and weekends will suddenly become increasingly valuable. I'll become more conscious about making plans that I actually want to fulfil, rather than just doing stuff to kill time. But until then, it's a state of limbo. Just going for a ride in my #limbozine.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s fair to say that applying for jobs is a pain in the hooha (apologies gentlemen readers). My father likes to remind me that when he was my age, he worked his socks off in the summer to earn his "beer money" and afford his social life. But lest we forget, this was the early 1980s, and in the US of A, so making a comparison seems frivolous. There was a time, too, when you could hire someone off the bat, or pull in a favour for a friend's kid. My grandfather received an offer from Cambridge, after a mere phone call between his school tutor and a college master at the university. Now the rigorous Oxbridge process is enough to give anyone a nervous breakdown. The youth of today is competing against a pool of increasingly qualified people. Saying “it’s hard” is an understatement.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What’s more - it’s a Catch-22. You can't get a job without experience, but you can't get experience without previous experience. But unless you plan on pulling this experience out of your arse, where on earth are you supposed to find it? And more often than not we’re forced into work experience and unpaid internships, just for CV bashing purposes, even if that means spending a month making tea and coffee for our colleagues, and doing random bits of admin that no-one else wants to do. But hey, at least you come out of it as a fully qualified hole-puncher. However, not everyone can afford to spend 3 months in London, unpaid. It requires the bank of Mummy and Daddy, or doting relatives to offer up the couch in their London pad.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--_PFYXDOUNk/U-j8IkA04TI/AAAAAAAABL4/Uo3JfrdFAkg/s1600/baby+phone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--_PFYXDOUNk/U-j8IkA04TI/AAAAAAAABL4/Uo3JfrdFAkg/s1600/baby+phone.jpg" height="200" width="320" /></a>Maybe I’m just suffering from the rampant Generation Y disease known as cynicism, which is why I spend most of my precious time online, tweeting irrelevant remarks, complaining about the empty job market, and going overboard on the hashtags, just to spite people. ‘Cos you know, that’s how we value ourselves nowadays - on the number of likes, or followers, or whatnot. It amused me no end when I was babysitting 3 girls the other day and the eldest (at the youthful age of 11) boasted how she already had over 70 followers after a mere week of activating an Instagram account. When she discovered I had fewer followers and I’d been using Instagram for an entire year, I feared I wasn’t cool enough to hang around with someone of her Instaprowess. Meet “Generation Z” (those born mid 1990s-mid 2000s). They were practically born onto tablets. They were probably using wifi from within the womb. “Foetus is connecting to BT Womb-Hub 1234”. Username: Foetus, Password: Fallopian.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lYguzICjmcA/U-j9PbY8VSI/AAAAAAAABMA/bWH8m6xD8D8/s1600/facebook+like.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lYguzICjmcA/U-j9PbY8VSI/AAAAAAAABMA/bWH8m6xD8D8/s1600/facebook+like.jpg" height="316" width="320" /></a>I’m bored. I think I’ll just take a #selfie, post it on Facebook, and pretend I lead an exciting life. And when I’m in Paris in a couple weeks, or travelling to SEA in September, I’ll post a daily #instatravel snap so you know how much fun I’m having. And if I end up in hospital with Malaria, I'll probably get the nurse to help me take a selfie, too (#nofilter). Just to prove how much of a badass I am. WAHOO #NDE. Have we become so obsessed with documenting our lives that we've entered a state of paralysis where we spend more time pausing for the camera, than going out and living life to the full? In a world desperately needing the youth to take on an active role, is it true that we'd rather take selfies with burning piers and dead bodies? We've also become painfully self-regarding, with an unruly tendency to splatter our innermost thoughts and feelings across social media. When is this going to stop? When will this no longer be "cool"?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To conclude. “I’m not a real person yet”, said Frances in Noah Baumbach’s <i>Frances Ha</i>, after her card got declined in a restaurant. And you know why she's not? Because she loved herself just a little too much. (Oh, and she happened to be virtually unemployed too...)</div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-73876938555451139342014-04-23T11:26:00.002+01:002014-04-23T21:00:40.622+01:00AHOY SEXY: My Experience On Tinder<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fKZDZ48-PBU/U1eTHWulD-I/AAAAAAAABJI/wt9GGW2HUMc/s1600/like+tinder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fKZDZ48-PBU/U1eTHWulD-I/AAAAAAAABJI/wt9GGW2HUMc/s1600/like+tinder.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>So some of you may remember that a few months back, I wrote a pretty scathing <a href="http://girl-french-cravatte.blogspot.co.uk/2013/12/finding-love-on-tinder.html" target="_blank">review of Tinder</a>. But, alas, I bumped into a friend on the train on my way back to Exeter and he persuaded me to get it. I ummed and aahed for an extended period of time, but finally gave in. I handed over my phone (reluctantly I might add), and he carefully went through my Facebook pictures to choose the "perfect assortment." To the untrained eye, I was the ultimate catch. &nbsp;Well, that was the plan anyway. He came up with a couple goofy lines for my bio, but I thought I'd best leave it blank. After all, it's not like I was taking any of it seriously...or was I?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My goodness is Tinder addictive. There's something so unforgivably titillating about it that I found myself losing sleep over it. Literally. I could stay up on it for hours, just mindlessly swiping pictures of men. Gosh that makes me sound perverted. But there's no point denying it - it's just so compulsive that you don't even need to flick your brain in gear before you use it. Just one more, you tell yourself, just one more. If you have managed to escape Tinder up until now, I urge you to keep it that way...particularly if you are in the middle of revising for exams or writing essays. It was quickly becoming my number one procrastination method....no more listening to remixes of <i>Let It Go</i> from Frozen...it's Tinder time.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BZ2TKR-L3TE/U1eRMLpgd5I/AAAAAAAABI8/o1ZItNOTs3E/s1600/sexy+tinder.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BZ2TKR-L3TE/U1eRMLpgd5I/AAAAAAAABI8/o1ZItNOTs3E/s1600/sexy+tinder.png" height="224" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So far the conversations have been pretty PG, well, relatively. I haven't started any conversations (apart from a joke one with my friend on the train), so I've let the men do the talking. There have been a lot of "hey! how are you?" type things - no awkward chat up lines thank goodness. One guy discussed his love of "McBusted" and how excited he was to be going to their concert. One guy took it a little far with the euphemisms. I stopped responding when he insisted on discussing his "wood." I told him I wasn't a very good carpenter, and left it at that. Another one told me he'd drive all the way over to see my "gorgeous ass." Where he got that from, I do not know. (Note to readers: I'm not posting pics of my "ass" on Tinder.)<br /><br />But after having Tinder for less than 2 days, I decided it was time to hop off the band wagon. I realised that it was the worst waste of my time, ever. I'd racked up 51 matches in approximately 30 hours, but still didn't feel satisfied in any way, partly because I know some guys just "like" everyone for the hell of it, plus...it seems so insincere basing someone's worth on a few pictures. I won't deny however that it was pretty entertaining, and that was my main reason for using it. I was certainly <i>not</i> looking for love, or a quick hook-up. Basically, I wasn't treating it as a "dating app", and any guy that asked for my number received a resounding "no." I was treating it as an "I'm bored, let's do something fun" app, with a "this could be good material for my blog" mentality. Consequently, I spent quite a lot of time staring in disbelief at my iPhone. Most of the men reminded me of really poor quality advertising campaigns. I'm not expecting every guy to be an Orlando Bloom lookalike, but don't post really cringeworthy pictures of yourself looking like a douche. Let me elaborate:<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HGIxnlOmJUo/U1eQpE1DjJI/AAAAAAAABI0/CT566RSnjWw/s1600/NOPE+TINDER.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HGIxnlOmJUo/U1eQpE1DjJI/AAAAAAAABI0/CT566RSnjWw/s1600/NOPE+TINDER.png" height="400" width="230" /></a>What is it with the iPhone mirror selfies? I mean seriously. They make me want to tear my eyes out of my sockets. I genuinely have an acute aversion to this sort of picture, particularly when guys do it, and particularly when every single Tinder picture is an iPhone mirror selfie. Maybe that sounds sexist, but it really grates on me. And what is with the creepy under the sheets ones of you lying in bed? NO. JUST NO. Stop making love to the camera, it's creeping me out. And stop posting multiple pictures of just a third of your face, or only choosing pictures of you and a bunch of ten other guys. This should be your dating passport, and it gives me a headache trying to work out which one you are. Make it SIMPLE. It's not rocket science. Oh, and it's cute that you like your dog, but does it really have to appear in every single picture? How many angles of the dog's face are there? And why do you insist on hiding behind your dog in every single picture? <br /><br />OK, so you may have good abs, or biceps, or whatever part of your body. But goodness gracious: put them away. The odd shot of you on the beach with your swimming trunks on is fine, but mirror selfies of you tensing is not a good look. Frankly, it makes you looks arrogant. Like I said earlier, anything involving a phone and a mirror is an immediate me no likey, left swipey.<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Men with babies and children: ?!?!?!?!. In EVERY photo. Maybe it's your niece, or godson, or whoever...but when every picture is of you snuggling up to a bunch of kids like they're your own (maybe they are, maybe they aren't), I'm running a mile. Who are you trying to find? Playmates for your kids? Probably best to crop out the kids, or get the hell off Tinder. Moron. Hang on a sec, that was a bit harsh. If you're a single Dad, looking for luurve, please put it in your bio. I'm not ready to be a Step Mother just yet, so I'd like a little pre-warning.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You'd also think that in this age of super technology, offensively blurry photos would be something of the past. Apparently not on Tinder. Look, I'm not expecting microscopic HD quality where every pore on your skin is visible (that would probably be pretty unflattering for anyone), but when all your photos are as blurry as my vision is when I'm not wearing contact lenses...we got a problem. Get yourself a decent camera, or find a better picture. When the entirety of your face is pixellated, what is the point? And don't pretend you're going for the "artsy" look - this is Tinder, not Instagram. Sort it aaht.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0cup1VXM4jM/U1eUA99BbEI/AAAAAAAABJU/w6koY78Teoo/s1600/guys+tinder.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0cup1VXM4jM/U1eUA99BbEI/AAAAAAAABJU/w6koY78Teoo/s1600/guys+tinder.png" height="320" width="244" /></a>When you say you're 22, but look 50....ummm, yea. Maybe you're one of those unlucky souls who is aging prematurely, but unlikely. Go find someone your own age. Perve.<br /><br />Tinder has apparently become the platform to showcase peoples' extreme sporting capabilities - from skiing, snowboarding, skateboarding, motor racing...As a skier myself it's nice to see someone else that also skies - I feel a connection. But if every pic is of you going down the mountain clad head-to-toe in bulky ski stuff, a balaclava and a helmet, I'm not digging it. Likewise with the scuba diving pictures. I also scuba dive, but if every photo is of you wearing Jupiter sized goggles, a wetsuit, and a massive tank on your back....hey, maybe I'm just being shallow.<br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One last thing. Dude, don't write in your bio: I like golf swimming climbing music gym biking etc. Ever heard of a comma? Apparently not...It's that little thing located on your keyboard and it looks like this "," &lt;--- do us a favour, and use it. Love from the Grammar Nazi.<br /><br />So there you have it - my experience with Tinder. It's safe to say that I will never, ever, return. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>NB: This article is supposed to be OTT and ridiculous...somewhat, anyway ;)Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-42542501271085368132014-04-02T21:53:00.003+01:002014-04-02T21:53:41.191+01:00Am I The Only One Not Getting Engaged?<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uUa5VAVbT2M/Uzx2R0rSZkI/AAAAAAAABII/8NA6VUys8wg/s1600/ENGAGEEMNT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uUa5VAVbT2M/Uzx2R0rSZkI/AAAAAAAABII/8NA6VUys8wg/s1600/ENGAGEEMNT.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a>Engagements seem to be a daily occurrence on my Facebook newsfeed. I can't seem to wake up without being bombarded with sparkly rings, and pictures of smiling couples, kissing couples, "we're so perfect together" couples. Of course I'm happy for them (I truly am), but am I&nbsp;jealous? ERRR, nope. Not that engagements are a bad thing - I just can't see myself tying the knot anytime soon. So that queue of men following me around, ready to drop down on one knee: like, back off. I know you're there in your invisibility cloaks.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the 1950s I would have been described as the "ripe old age of 22" - my Granny got married at my age, but already considered herself "on the shelf". I'm just hoping that a woman's shelf life in the 2010s is a little longer than in the 1950s, otherwise I'm screwed (any eligible bachelors out there? We have until December!) I might as well sign up to a nunnery now. Wait...would I even qualify? I'd probably be one of those "naughty nuns" people go as to fancy dress parties, with an offensively short habit. I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I've been spending too long in the library...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5rtuHOOo6Lk/Uzx3PxxsI1I/AAAAAAAABIQ/qVqCZZSar3s/s1600/JANE+AUSTEN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5rtuHOOo6Lk/Uzx3PxxsI1I/AAAAAAAABIQ/qVqCZZSar3s/s1600/JANE+AUSTEN.jpg" /></a></div>I can't help but think that I'm way too young to be getting married. It feels like I've only just hit puberty. Nah, I'm joking. But I don't feel like I'm mature enough to think about the future yet - I'm still happy just figuring out life, and making mistakes, and living a little. I don't want to settle down with anyone before I've figured out what really matters to me. Maybe that sounds a little selfish, but isn't that part of the luxury of being in your twenties? That state of drifting, not really knowing the precision of your identity, and not really caring either. Maybe this sounds all rather silly, but that's how I feel sometimes. Responsibilities are there, but you can afford to throw your eggs in multiple baskets.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When you've got a dissertation to write and exams to revise for etc., I don't know how you're supposed to fit a fiancé into the equation anyway. And where the hell am I supposed to find him? Between a stack of library books? The only other place I tend to hang out is the gym, but I don't have a great track record (see post below). And contrary to popular belief, the TP and Arena dance floors don't tend to be ideal hotspots for blossoming love affairs. Just sayin'.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aI16ceT1Nlg/Uzx3m_X_pCI/AAAAAAAABIY/Uy-6xrO0kbk/s1600/MEN+FIGHT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aI16ceT1Nlg/Uzx3m_X_pCI/AAAAAAAABIY/Uy-6xrO0kbk/s1600/MEN+FIGHT.jpg" height="320" width="311" /></a></div>Between the all-nighters in the library eating my bodyweight in Mini Cheddars, and the sweaty gym classes, my life isn't currently cut out for romance, let alone a fiancé. Maybe I'm not the relationship type. A male friend once told me that I don't give off the "relationship vibe". I'm not quite sure what this vibe amounts to, or how I'm supposed to catch it, but I'm curious nonetheless. I have friends who are always in and out of relationships -&nbsp;<i>always. </i>My best friend and I couldn't be more opposite when it comes to dating. She's spent the majority of her tween years (teen and twenties) in long-term relationships. I genuinely don't know how she does it. And then there's me, the ultimate failure. Even Bridget Jones had two men fighting over her. Where are mine? Men: START PUNCHING EACH OTHER (it'll make me feel better).<br /><br />Fear not dear readers, I am not actually feeling <i>that</i> "man weepy" (a stunning phrase a couple of my friends have used to describe their mental state in the month of February). Contrary to my rants, I'm perfectly content being single. Because nothing feels as good as Beyoncé's <b>Single Ladies </b>playing in a nightclub, and actually being able to throw both hands in the air, hoping that I'll be plucked from a crowd of other desperate hopefuls....I will live in the hope that if he likes me <i>that </i>much, he'll put a ring on it. And then <b>I'LL</b> be the newly engaged gal on the block....<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-72186787897352194762014-03-26T12:18:00.003+00:002014-03-26T22:29:06.510+00:00Cheating Husbands: I Was Almost The "Other Woman"<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-41N6nI0mjtk/UzLlxqvPX1I/AAAAAAAABHw/gDMlS9pyDls/s1600/smile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-41N6nI0mjtk/UzLlxqvPX1I/AAAAAAAABHw/gDMlS9pyDls/s1600/smile.jpg" height="320" width="224" /></a></div>I’m a naturally bubbly and flirtatious person, and I’m happy to admit that. My girlfriends are always picking up on it. They’ve become so used to it that it’s become a running joke. They’ll roll their eyes, but I just laugh. But can I just clarify something? <i>That doesn’t for a moment mean that I want to make out with every guy I “flirt” with,</i> <i>or that I’m attracted to him</i>. It’s just my way of being - my personality, I suppose.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My flirtatiousness (although often I think it’s just synonymous with talkativeness), has landed me in deep water on several occasions (I’ll enlighten you later on in this post!) Being talkative can be great - it makes “small talk” more bearable because you’ve always got something to say - <i>but sometimes it’s better to just shut up</i>. I’ll speak to almost anyone - in fact anyone. I’m not very good at giving off negative facial expressions either, unlike one of my housemates who seems to be a pro. If I try to ladle out “evils” on the dance floor, I probably look like I’m going for the “sultry, come get me boys” look, which is never, ever my intention. Definitely a reason to practice in the mirror beforehand…</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I also have a tendency to smile quite a lot, unless I’m super duper tired and can’t physically move my smile muscles (I’m sure there’s a more technical term). Again, this can be a good thing because it shows you’re a warm, friendly person, but it also has consequences. I find that men often take this as a positive signal - like you’re giving them the go ahead. Errr…<i>dude</i>: I smiled at the pensioner behind you as well, so don’t get too cocky. <b>Sometimes a smile is just a smile, not an indicator that I want your babies.</b> Clear? And if I winked at you, I probably winked at the guy next to you as well. Because, like, I do this thing where I wink at people sometimes, accidentally on purpose (mainly accidentally…) Anyway, now for the anecdote (and this one isn’t from Paris surprisingly!)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So a couple years ago I went to a gym called <i>Clifton Hill Sports Centre</i>. Not gonna lie, the gym was pretty crappy, but it was a 2 minute walk from my student house so there was no excuse not to go. One Saturday in the summer term, there was the Exeter Respect Festival going on in Belmont Park just opposite. I popped down to the gym and it was virtually empty. A youngish man was sitting behind the desk, and he swiped my card. I threw my bag into a locker and went into the empty gym, headphones plugged in. I was using the leg machine when he walked over, clad in his suit. He started talking to me, and I responded in my usual vein: I was chatty. I stupidly gave him the time of day. He seemed nice enough, but before long it was obvious that he had an ulterior motive. It had only been five minutes, and <i>he was already talking about a “secret beach” that he’d like to take me to</i>. I tried to do my tricep dips, but he just sat opposite me, watching. I looked nervous, but he kept staring. After I finished he told me to come by at 9pm when the gym closed to give me a “tour”. I politely declined, but was admittedly flattered. Even with sweat dripping down my face, I held some sort of appeal.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hBgqEHM380M/UzLEmwcefnI/AAAAAAAABHY/04myHvBo3V0/s1600/illiterare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hBgqEHM380M/UzLEmwcefnI/AAAAAAAABHY/04myHvBo3V0/s1600/illiterare.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a>I had never introduced myself to him. He didn’t know my name. Or did he? I arrived home and he’d already added me on Facebook. When he swiped my card, my name must have come up on his screen. For some (stupid) reason, I decided to accept him. I suppose I was intrigued, and was worried that it would be “awkward” if I didn’t. He started sending me messages, but I’ll tell you now that <i>one of my biggest pet peeves is when people can’t spell, or use incomprehensible slang</i>. “Wod” is not a suitable alternative for “would” - and “no” and “know” are not interchangeable. It wasn’t long before he started flirting; he wanted to take me on a date…to go for a walk in the countryside, and grab lunch at a nice pub. I was torn: should I just live a little, or should I avoid the man at all costs? Either way, the unofficial “date” was postponed because his sister was going into labour and he needed to make a trip to the hospital.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Whenever I went into the gym he’d try to subtly poke me in the ribs when no-one was looking. How was I supposed to act? One time he insisted on walking me to my front door. I tried to stop him, but he followed me. It didn’t take long for me to realise that he was trying to solicit sex from me. He was knocking on the wrong door, that’s for sure. I made it clear that I wasn’t interested but he insisted that it would be fun to go on a few dates before I went home for the summer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He continued being really inappropriate, so I decided to block him on Facebook. I should have done it earlier, but I didn’t know what to do. The only thing I was certain of was that I wanted him out of my life….</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gPXMVIdrUNM/UzLDuO2CAPI/AAAAAAAABHM/VFirNy1OV44/s1600/stalking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gPXMVIdrUNM/UzLDuO2CAPI/AAAAAAAABHM/VFirNy1OV44/s1600/stalking.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a>A few days ago I was reminiscing about my 2nd year at university, and I started thinking about this awkward turn of events. I had a sudden urge to stalk him on Facebook (forgetting that I’d actually blocked him, which would mean he wouldn’t come up), and I found a profile for a man with the same name, who worked at the same gym. I was intrigued and started clicking through the pictures. There were various baby pictures, and pictures of the same man I’d met two years ago in the gym with a blonde woman. Ah, so he’s a newlywed? Not quite. On the “About” section, I found out that he got married in 2009. My stomach churned. It wasn’t long before I put two and two together and concluded that his “sister” that went into labour was probably his wife.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But hang on a sec:&nbsp;<i>How hadn’t I realised before that he was married?</i> How had I not seen these pictures? I was having a Sherlock Holmes moment and trying to play detective when it suddenly hit me. He must have two profiles. I looked in my “blocked users” list, and surprise surprise, there was the same man, with the same name, that I’d blocked two years earlier. I unblocked him and began to stalk. In this profile he presented himself as “single”. So this was the profile he used to prey on young women? Apparently so…</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So what did I do? Naturally, I added both profiles on Facebook to see what would happen. And this is how the conversation went (I’ve changed his name for privacy reasons…)</div><br /><b>Married man</b><br />Hi x<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #cc0000;"> Montana Gerry</span></b><br />do you have 2 profiles?<br /><br /><b> Married man</b><br />No why u ask ?<br /><br /><b><span style="color: red;"> Montana Gerry</span></b><br />just because there's another guy called **** who works at the same place as you and was confused...?<br /><br />but he got married in 2009 and has a kid...<br /><br /><b> Married man</b><br />So why the add??x<br />How have u been btw<br /><br /><b><span style="color: red;"> Montana Gerry</span></b><br />i wanted to tell you that you should stop dicking around, you have a wife and kid, and what you did was disgusting.<br />i'm fine though, thanks for asking<br /><br /><b>Married Man</b><br />What are u going on about ! U added me to insult me!<br /><span style="color: red;"><br /><b> Montana Gerry</b></span><br />i think you've insulted your wife more than i'm insulting you now<br />i'm not thick - you completely deceived me, and i think you owe me an apology<br /><br /><b> Married man</b><br />For what ??<br /><br /><b><span style="color: red;"> Montana Gerry</span></b><br />are you denying that you're married?<br /><b><br /> Married man</b><br />U tell me u no all the answers so it seems?<br /><br /><b><span style="color: red;"> Montana Gerry</span></b><br />you added me on Facebook, tried to have sex with me, have two Facebook profiles, at the same time as having a wife and kid<br /><br />do you think that sounds normal?<br /><br /><b> Married Man</b><br />What wod u like me to say??<br /><br /><b><span style="color: red;"> Montana Gerry</span></b><br />the truth, for once<br /><br /><b>Married man</b><br />U don't even no me !<br /><br /><span style="color: red;"><b> Montana Gerry</b></span><br />you tried to force yourself into my house for a “cup of tea”, and then tried to have sex with me...<br /><br /><b> Married man</b><br />?....<br /><br /><b><span style="color: red;"> Montana Gerry</span></b><br />you're right, i don't know you. because everything you told me before on Facebook and in real life was bullshit<br /><br /><b> Married Man</b><br />So why have u contacted me. !<br /><br /><b><span style="color: red;"> Montana Gerry</span></b><br />because i felt it was important to stick up for women who are married to unfaithful men. <br />i wanted you to know that i am not fooled, that your "secret beach" can go rot in hell. i just hope your kid doesn't end up like you<br /><b><br /> Married man</b><br />That everything?<br /><br /><b><span style="color: red;"> Montana Gerry</span></b><br />think so, have a nice life.<br /><br /><b> Married man</b><br />U to !<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VPnPvI63Dr4/UzLDVa12oBI/AAAAAAAABHE/aEtvTa6HijM/s1600/cheating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VPnPvI63Dr4/UzLDVa12oBI/AAAAAAAABHE/aEtvTa6HijM/s1600/cheating.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a>And if that wasn’t enough, <i>I soon discovered a third profile</i>. I’m pretty sure it’s the profile he uses as a “single Dad”, to lure in all the single mums out there.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Understandably this man’s actions make me feel <b>sick to the core</b>. I was in two minds as to whether I should report him for stealing data from the gym for his own personal gains (adding me on Facebook), but decided it was in my best interest to just put it behind me. I’m just grateful that I didn’t get stuck in his web of lies for longer than I had to be. He was clearly on a mission to pick up women from the gym - it was no accident. I'm just grateful that I wasn't interested and that I didn't let the sex-hungry animal take advantage of me. But what if I had been? What if I'd been too weak to say no? What if I'd fallen under his spell and been drawn into his web of lies? <i>What if I'd unknowingly been the "other woman"?</i><br /><br />NB: Since writing this article, I've been contacted by various students who had very similar experiences with the same man around the same time. It appears I wasn't the only victim.</div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-83530110630614718052014-03-14T20:12:00.003+00:002014-03-14T20:12:56.418+00:00RockSolid Race: ARGH<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Cg_gvbJPW5M/UyNgshR9DNI/AAAAAAAABGc/Bp8OHOtUd0E/s1600/rag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Cg_gvbJPW5M/UyNgshR9DNI/AAAAAAAABGc/Bp8OHOtUd0E/s1600/rag.jpg" height="118" width="320" /></a>So one of my favourite gals and I have decided to embark on a fitness adventure: RockSolid Race. I've been feeling rather nonchalant about it for the past few weeks, until it recently dawned on me that the race is tomorrow. Yes, TOMORROW. Am I RockSolidReady? Well, I guess I'll find out tomorrow when I'm lying in a muddy ditch somewhere...<br /><br />Ever since I completed a half marathon last year (yea I promise I'm not trying to show off with that comment!), I've become a bit of a sporting enthusiast. Wait, let me rephrase that: Since the half marathon, I've stupidly thought that signing up for things like this is a good idea. Yet despite the fact that the half marathon was a rather painful experience (I got blisters galore), the feeling afterwards was pretty insane. Not only had I raised money for a fantastic charity (International Justice Mission), but I'd proven that with sufficient motivation and training, I could run 21km. And that gave me a pretty positive, healthy outlook on life.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-igvMnFqh2Nk/UyNhCMDEU9I/AAAAAAAABGk/NPOWR_lnhz0/s1600/princess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-igvMnFqh2Nk/UyNhCMDEU9I/AAAAAAAABGk/NPOWR_lnhz0/s1600/princess.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>So this year I thought I'd do something a little different. Kelly and I have set ourselves the challenge of doing the RockSolid Race, a 10km obstacle course in Escot Park, raising money for various charities through RAG. We're talking muddy ditches, giant walls, crawling, cargo climbs, hydroslides, ropes, ice...you name it. The more I think about it, the more I want to curl into a ball and die. Nothing could prepare for me for this. I've been going to RockSolid Circuits at the gym on Mondays which has been great training, but they work more on improving my strength than preparing me for the crazy conditions that await me.<br /><br />I suppose what I'm most looking forward to is that element of teamwork. The half marathon was a personal endeavour, but this race relies heavily on working effectively as a team. Of course you could do it by yourself if you&nbsp;<i>really&nbsp;</i>wanted, but then it would lose part of its charm (OK, maybe charm is the wrong word here). And given that I'm quite short, I think I'd find myself dangling off a few walls without some tall men to help me clamber over them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-67omMHXqB5s/UyNh9Ts77eI/AAAAAAAABGw/344mKmH4vO0/s1600/wall+climb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-67omMHXqB5s/UyNh9Ts77eI/AAAAAAAABGw/344mKmH4vO0/s1600/wall+climb.jpg" height="155" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">www.rocksolidrace.com</td></tr></tbody></table>What made me sign up? There's something quite exciting about a challenge; to be able to push yourself to the max. It's not just about physical endurance, but it's a lot about your mentality, too. Looking back, I never in a million years would have seen myself completing a half marathon. Never. Not because I'm a lazy sod (well, sorta), but because of the willpower needed to train religiously, every week, for a few months. Not to mention the inevitable pain that would come alongside that. But more often than not, it's a battle with your mind: do I stop now, or do I keep going? So when I proved to myself that it was possible to run a half marathon, why shouldn't I try a different challenge?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've been training 5-6 times per week, and a big shout out to the guys at the Russell Seal Fitness centre for being so awesome and motivating me to work hard. I may not look like a Victoria's Secret Model (I like food too much, and err...I'm like a foot too small), but whatevs...it's been fun!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally, if you would like to sponsor me, then please do! The link is here:<br /><br /><a href="https://mydonate.bt.com/fundraisers/montanagerry1">https://mydonate.bt.com/fundraisers/montanagerry1</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-69302432454721909222014-02-24T12:29:00.001+00:002014-02-24T12:29:55.901+00:00Student Accommodation: Mould, Slugs & Dodgy Flushes<div style="text-align: justify;">So my days as a student haven't come without their fair share of problems. Let me enlighten you with the daily struggles my comrades and I must face:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eNKYoN2PYD8/Uws3XhTCsjI/AAAAAAAABFg/kv9OaVIE9VQ/s1600/mould.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eNKYoN2PYD8/Uws3XhTCsjI/AAAAAAAABFg/kv9OaVIE9VQ/s1600/mould.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">1) <b>Mould. </b>As I sit here writing this, all I can see is a nice thick trail of mould going up my wall. My landlady calls it "condensation" - I call it mould. Call it what you will, but it's black and speckled. Not the sort of thing I want to be breathing in on a daily basis. &nbsp;She's tried painting over it, but I'm not &nbsp;fooled in the slightest. It's also on the kitchen walls, too. Mmmm.</div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">2) <b>Condensation </b>(real condensation this time).&nbsp;I was having such serious problems with condensation forming on my windows, that I'd sometimes wake up to a small pool of water flowing along the windowsill. Apparently the only way to avoid this was to keep the window open; something which I was loath to do, given the extreme antarctic conditions outside. Thankfully after multiple complaints, they put in double glazing. Only wish that would sort the mould out, too.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">3) <b>Whoever installed the radiator in my room is a retard. </b>The radiator is right next to the door, and couldn't be further away from my bed. Plus, it's physically impossible to put my bed nearer the radiator, given the layout of the room. #fail</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">4) <b>Water bills. </b>So South-West water is notorious for being painfully expensive. Before having a meter installed, we would have been paying £130 per month for water. We were told that with a meter we'd be spending more like £70 per month, which seemed far more reasonable. Recently, however, we received a bill for £3000. Yep, you read that correctly. £3000. My housemates shed a few tears, and our landlady threatened to dig up our kitchen (she was worried we had a leak). Turns out we only owed £30...South West water don't do decimal places very well.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">5) <b>Fridge. </b>On multiple occasions we've had to put a chair in front of the fridge because it refused to close. And not because we had too much food in it, but because the hinges were dodgy. Our freezer is also a little too cold. You could make icy snowballs out of the amount of ice that accumulates.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SJKSiszjZdk/Uws32XtbhsI/AAAAAAAABFo/gd9zEbqDBUs/s1600/slugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SJKSiszjZdk/Uws32XtbhsI/AAAAAAAABFo/gd9zEbqDBUs/s1600/slugs.jpg" height="182" width="320" /></a>6) <b>Slugs. </b>We haven't seen many recently because it's been too cold, but last term they were arriving practically daily. These grotesque creatures would leave slime trails all over the floor (which we initially mistook for "glitter"). These bad boys have been found in kitchen drawers, inside cereal boxes....you name it. We tend to throw salt on them so that they explode, but I have on more than one occasion stepped on one of these trespassers, and it wasn't a pretty sight.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">7) <b>Dishwasher.</b> OK I know I shouldn't be complaining...we have a dishwasher, lucky things! BUT, I tell you...when most of the plates come out half-clean, you have a problem. We've been blamed for "not knowing how to use the dishwasher", but we're not idiots. Even with the best tablets money can buy, our dishwasher needs replacing. It may be the "best brand of dishwasher out there", but not when it's a few decades old.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">8)&nbsp;<b>Bathroom.</b>&nbsp;The lock on the&nbsp;bathroom door is broken, until you master the technique. I've walked in on too many people peeing that it's no&nbsp;longer PG 13. Next, we've been told that we simply CANNOT get the bathroom floor wet, otherwise the tiles will loosen and we could risk falling through the ceiling. I also managed to considerably injure myself the other day when trying to turn on the tap, which decided to gorge out a hunk of my skin.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">9) <b>Toilet flush.</b> So in one of our bathrooms we have a "modern" toilet flush. I say "modern" because this is what we've been told, but I'd rather go with "temperamental". This involves slamming a couple flush buttons into the wall at the same time, with just the right amount of pressure. There's an art to it, that not even the most skilled amongst us can manage. We've been given toilet flushing lessons from our landlady since day 1, but we're almost positive that this modern piece of technology is a failure.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YkBIrZLazu4/Uws6CeXiEgI/AAAAAAAABF0/3Z6p3N-FDsk/s1600/washing+machine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YkBIrZLazu4/Uws6CeXiEgI/AAAAAAAABF0/3Z6p3N-FDsk/s1600/washing+machine.jpg" height="312" width="320" /></a>10) <b>TV. </b>So we decided to fork out just over £100 on a second hand TV, but we needn't have bothered. The colour contrast is <i>rubbish</i>. I was trying to watch "Legally Blonde" the other day, and I couldn't make out anyone's face. It was like watching a horror film set in an underground basement in the pitch black.<br /><br />11) <b>Washing Machine. </b>The washing machine has a habit of refusing to open after the cycle has finished. This has ended in our clothes being literally "trapped" inside the washing machine for days on end. Recently, however, I mastered the technique. It involves kicking the door aggressively with my foot until it opens. That's what I like to call "taking the initiative".<br /><br />So there you have it - the trials and tribulations of student living.</div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-59681513492961667432014-02-23T20:32:00.002+00:002014-02-24T20:00:04.246+00:00How To (Maybe) Get A Grad Job<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Um9BGkiXTdU/UwjqtP8cxdI/AAAAAAAABEI/aey1xVh4tis/s1600/standout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Um9BGkiXTdU/UwjqtP8cxdI/AAAAAAAABEI/aey1xVh4tis/s1600/standout.jpg" height="193" width="320" /></a>So you may want to take everything I say with a pinch of salt (I'm hardly a know-it-all, and I can't really vouch for the fact that my methods &nbsp;work)...but I've been applying for a few grad schemes recently, and this is what I came up with:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">1) <b>Don't play it safe. </b>When an employer is receiving 700 applications for a job, you want to stand out. My first approach is to be a little wacky. They're either going to love it or hate it. But then again, you've got more of a chance of being "remembered", and that's a good thing, right? For one of my applications, I was asked to explain why they should hire me in 140 characters. Characters, not words. I suppose I could have reeled off a list of adjectives, but that's incredibly boring and unimaginative. So instead, I went a little off the beaten track and mentioned my notorious haircut from "magic fingers" twitter man, and how it was all part of a social media experiment. Apparently it worked, or maybe they were just intrigued to see the haircut. Either way, they invited me for a telephone interview so it clearly didn't put them off&nbsp;<i>that </i>much.</div><br /><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">2) <b>Never tell them you're "creative" in a boring way. </b>Writing&nbsp;"I'm creative" is in itself a boring statement. Showing your creativity is so much more powerful than stating it matter of factly.&nbsp;</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vB269fw_rk/Uwjpklpqj8I/AAAAAAAABD0/YYelx1yfrtk/s1600/fail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_vB269fw_rk/Uwjpklpqj8I/AAAAAAAABD0/YYelx1yfrtk/s1600/fail.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a>3) <b>Triple check for errors</b>. I've committed the faux-pas of leaving applications too last-minute, and not having enough time to read them through properly. Better yet? Get someone else to look over it for you. If you're spending hours and hours on an application, it's easy to miss obvious mistakes. Misplacing an apostrophe could be the difference between making it to the next round, or not. Especially if one of your so-called strengths is "writing". You don't want them getting out the red pen...</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">4)<b> If you're unclear about anything, email them.</b>&nbsp;Most grad schemes will have an email account specifically for the application process. Don't ask them anything you can find online (that shows you haven't done your research), but if you're genuinely unsure about something, let them know! It will show you how keen you are to succeed.&nbsp;</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">5) <b>Research, research, research. </b>It sounds obvious, but the more research you do, the more credible you'll sound. There's nothing worse than freezing during a telephone interview or one-on-one interview, simply because you didn't do some basic research on the company. Make sure you're familiar with their clients, any recognition they've received for their work, their values etc. Make sure you know the sector inside out, too. OK, so they're not expecting you to be experts in the field, but showing a bit of initiative and going out of your way to dig deep for information must count for something!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QaVFQbHn1e4/UwjqUj2B_xI/AAAAAAAABEA/6POOvlAAJQ8/s1600/flipboard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QaVFQbHn1e4/UwjqUj2B_xI/AAAAAAAABEA/6POOvlAAJQ8/s1600/flipboard.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">6) <b>Swot up on current affairs. </b>Don't want to be a journalist? Doesn't matter. An awareness of current affairs, and being able to evaluate how current events might be impacting your sector is crucial. It also shows your engagement with the world, and that you're switched on. When an interviewer is trying to talk to you about the latest scandal and you have no idea what they're talking about, that's when you know you're underprepared. My favourite way to scoop up news stories at the moment is through the app Flipboard, which pulls news from a variety of sources, allowing you to literally flip from one exciting story to the next.&nbsp;</div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">6) <b>Spell their name right in the email.</b>&nbsp; Sometimes you'll just be writing Dear Sir/Madam, but if you're messaging someone specific, make sure you spell their name correctly. This might sound simple, but the number of times I have received emails saying "Dear Gerry", instead of "Dear Montana", just goes to show how careless people can be. I may not be employing you, but I can say right now that if I were working in HR and someone emailed me saying "Dear Gerry", they'd go straight into the rejection pile. Even with a first from Cambridge.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">7) <b>Don't be TOO schmoozy</b>. So a bit of schmoozing can be great, but it's about quality over quantity. You don't want to overdo it. Imagine walking into a room and someone told you non-stop for 2 hours how amazing you are. Initially you'd be flattered, but eventually you'd become suspicious. Make sure you're being genuine at the same time. Flattery can go a long way, but only when executed tactfully.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ez3cz3Dju-s/Uwjri3W3PgI/AAAAAAAABEc/I2b204_SfeE/s1600/carrot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ez3cz3Dju-s/Uwjri3W3PgI/AAAAAAAABEc/I2b204_SfeE/s1600/carrot.jpg" height="200" width="148" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">8) <b>Don't lie. </b>We all like to embellish slightly (and this isn't always a bad thing!), but please, there's a limit. I remember once in a French practice oral exam for GCSE, making up an exchange student called Elena who I went to visit in Spain. Safe to say, this Elena girl didn't exist. I suddenly became entangled in a web of lies, and didn't know how to get out of it. Ends don't meet, and you end up sounding like an absolute muppet. Frankly, these situations are embarrassing, and should be avoided at all costs. Unless you're a world champion at lying, leave it to the experts.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">9) <b>Don't be TOO humble. </b>Humility is a fantastic trait, but can often end up with you refusing to acknowledge your skills, achievements and potential. There's a difference between arrogance and being <b>persuasive</b>; you need to persuade them that you're right for the role. Simon Cowell's favourite phrase may be "I don't think you know how good you are", but you should never, ever, "dumb down" your achievements. Because that achievement was seriously awesome. Obviously there's a way of phrasing things so that you don't sound in love with yourself, but it's important that you SELL yourself. And that won't happen if you're eating humble pie all the time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c9mr4JTlpbg/UwjrKX9xBLI/AAAAAAAABEU/I3g9RpfbMPk/s1600/normal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c9mr4JTlpbg/UwjrKX9xBLI/AAAAAAAABEU/I3g9RpfbMPk/s1600/normal.jpg" height="200" width="156" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">10) <b>Be yourself</b>. Is that really cringe? At the end of the day, you want your future employer to like "you", not a persona. Don't pretend to be someone you're not - it's important that you keep your integrity, because this will be really important if you end up getting the job. You don't want to have any awkward "by the way, what I said in the interview wasn't true..." moments later on in your career. People-pleasing can be dangerous if you don't put yourself and your values first. So remember that!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-13252774653626825322014-02-15T16:13:00.000+00:002014-02-15T16:17:42.380+00:00My Spotify PlaylistSo my most recent procrastination method has been discovering new (female) artists on Spotify (well, new artists to me, but not necessarily "new")…and this is what happened.&nbsp;There’s a bit of jazz, and indie folk mixed in there with a splash of alternative music, too. Click on the links to listen to the songs on youtube and let me know what you think. Have any cool artists you want to share? &nbsp;Let me know in the comments below!<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rGgHaUWg1Vc/Uv-QnCcrJTI/AAAAAAAABCQ/lmPBfxCiA2Q/s1600/staves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rGgHaUWg1Vc/Uv-QnCcrJTI/AAAAAAAABCQ/lmPBfxCiA2Q/s1600/staves.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Staves</td></tr></tbody></table><div><b>The Staves</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pFtAz6Xnn5U" target="_blank">Facing West</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MBlpfXLQLvU" target="_blank">The Motherlode</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYV0Wp0MdZ4" target="_blank">Mexico</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RgyEBCbqvOE" target="_blank">Pay Us No Mind</a></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Basia Bulat</b>&nbsp;-&nbsp;<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gIhbxOlUIqc" target="_blank">Tall Tall Shadow</a>,&nbsp;<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RnbE1IBCGQ8" target="_blank">Heart Of My Own</a></div><div><br /></div><div><div><b>Lia Ices</b>&nbsp;-&nbsp;<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s2p1qxWdUc0" target="_blank">Love Is Won</a><br /><br /></div><div><b>Banks&nbsp;</b>-&nbsp;<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IaI5JCxOCdw" target="_blank">Waiting Game</a><br /><br /><b>Thao &amp; Mirah</b>&nbsp;-&nbsp;<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZ1PZ-Hu69M" target="_blank">Little Cup</a><br /><br /><b>Bat For Lashes</b>&nbsp;-&nbsp;<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UznHTBZIa8E" target="_blank">Laura</a></div></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Kat Edmonson</b>&nbsp;-&nbsp;<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=68xjjR5ztoQ" target="_blank">Lucky</a>,&nbsp;<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-xdqbgIOaVo" target="_blank">I Don’t Know</a></div><div><b><br />God Help the Girl</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RPVA9ZM0kZg" target="_blank">Come Monday Night</a><br /><br /><b>Hannah Peel </b>- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ppk0AdJSU2c" target="_blank">The Almond Tree</a><br /><br /><b>Lucy Rose</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aei31Nj_pdA" target="_blank">Night Bus</a><br /><b><br />Molly Nilsson</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZ594IL_wyw" target="_blank">Hey Moon!</a><br /><br /><b>Scout Niblett</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I9cwz12wKD0" target="_blank">Kiss</a><br /><b><br />Lisa Mitchell</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5RowAc-H3EM" target="_blank">Neopolitan Dreams</a><br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IySWQmkiR0I/Uv-RvH-jldI/AAAAAAAABCk/NqaEbt4ly-4/s1600/jenngrant2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IySWQmkiR0I/Uv-RvH-jldI/AAAAAAAABCk/NqaEbt4ly-4/s1600/jenngrant2.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenn Grant</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><b>Agnes Obel</b> -<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HJzp2SRs0Ak" target="_blank"> Dorian</a><br /><br /><b>Haley Bonar </b>- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sdgxj2TLTwU" target="_blank">Bless This Mess</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUiiVHeG-I0" target="_blank">Candy Machine Gun</a><br /><br /><b>Jenn Grant</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WDzIKMfolo" target="_blank">Paradise Mountain</a><br /><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Alice Boman </b>- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_KQdMgLW-K0" target="_blank">Waiting</a><br /><br /><b>Soley</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wLA5Hr8SAkA" target="_blank">Smashed Birds</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRwFRMGpTWg" target="_blank">Pretty Face</a><br /><br /><b>Alessi’s Ark</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KApTq4rG83E" target="_blank">The Horse</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2qLlsyHuxA" target="_blank">On The Plains</a><br /><br /><b>Polly Paulusma</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucoGrwNdRSI" target="_blank">She Moves In A Secret Way</a><br /><b><br />Over The Rhine</b> -<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-UvJ4LBzVg" target="_blank"> Born</a><br /><b></b><br /><b>Soko</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_Y2jfK06pY" target="_blank">First Love Never Die</a></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Stacey Randol&nbsp;</b>- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GIJwx4AZRwk" target="_blank">Fragile Forest</a><br /><br /><b>Katie Costello</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mf9GJPeOJFw" target="_blank">Stranger</a><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RoUcUoJcGq4/Uv-Q5yoSW9I/AAAAAAAABCY/vXmfFbHDsSM/s1600/stacey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RoUcUoJcGq4/Uv-Q5yoSW9I/AAAAAAAABCY/vXmfFbHDsSM/s1600/stacey.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stacey Randol</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>Sweet Talk Radio</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rq8uSN-lSD4" target="_blank">Dotted Lines</a></div><div><br /><b>Nataly Dawn</b> - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V4yD2XjtXVA" target="_blank">Caroline</a>,<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dtOjRRPbgfI" target="_blank"> Still A Believer</a></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Orla Gartland&nbsp;</b>-<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QXeuMi0ViT0" target="_blank"> Devil on my shoulder</a><br /><br /><b>Natalie Holmes</b>&nbsp;- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s4wLfMvVFuU" target="_blank">Backwards</a></div><div><br /><div><b>Rae Morris</b>&nbsp;- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wfWLxpcmhY" target="_blank">Don’t Go</a><br /><br /><b>Nina Nesbitt</b>&nbsp;- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXh8B4yWVKk" target="_blank">Selfies</a></div></div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-29612980734207144842014-02-13T17:01:00.000+00:002014-02-24T20:00:16.400+00:00First Year vs. Fourth Year<div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, we fourth years do exist, much to the surprise of "the fresh". The number of times people have gazed at me quizzically when I tell them "no, I'm not a Masters student", &nbsp;and "no, I didn't fail my third year", is frankly, embarrassing (on their part, I might add). I also feel shockingly old. '91 babies are a rare breed in Exeter, and I'm starting to feel like I'm already on the shelf. My youthful days seem to have flashed by me; I've already passed&nbsp;all the exciting ages like 13, 18, and 21. 30 can only mean the first signs of grey hair, and a considerably slower metabolism. Don't even get me started on 40…that's when the mid-life crises kick in. Yes, I meant to pluralise crisis - it's all about the multiples. Multiple chins, multiple tummy rolls, multiple children….Then I'll have to teach the children how to multiply for their maths homework, which will cause multiple problems, because I still count with my fingers.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lKpHcEF0yDU/Uvz40nHcpLI/AAAAAAAABAo/Q222KOkJn60/s1600/humanity.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lKpHcEF0yDU/Uvz40nHcpLI/AAAAAAAABAo/Q222KOkJn60/s1600/humanity.png" height="198" width="200" /></a></div>Everyone is asking about plans for next year. Family members, friends, your friends' parents, professors, strangers, strange professors….the list goes on. Grad job or travel? You tend to give a different answer each time the question is thrown at you, or find yourself regurgitating the same sketchy response which you know for a fact to be untrue. But it sounds good, so why not? Or maybe you're one of those lucky buggers who did an internship at a bank one summer and got a training contract under your belt. In which case, go away and stop rubbing it in my face.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">People warned me that final year was going to be a step up, but they didn't warn me how much. First and second year studying English and French was nothing short of a doddle. I remember my Dad skyping me mid-afternoon a couple times, and I was still in bed. Peering out from beneath the covers, sporting outrageous bed hair, and still wearing pyjamas, I must have looked quite the show. I was probably watching funny animal videos on youtube, as we students are prone to do. Sadly, bed has become a rare pleasure in fourth year. No more lethargic lie-ins. No more mid afternoon naps, or crawling back into bed after a greasy fry-up breakfast in halls.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kSRGJcK48yQ/Uvz5bg_tQzI/AAAAAAAABA0/EUAVNChgBZY/s1600/library+eating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kSRGJcK48yQ/Uvz5bg_tQzI/AAAAAAAABA0/EUAVNChgBZY/s1600/library+eating.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>I'm the first to admit that the word <b>library</b> seemed alien to me in my first year. I'd often take a few books out before an essay (to trick my brain into thinking I was ahead of the game), only to return them, unopened. Who needs a library when I can get so much on Jstor and Google books? But now, the library has become second nature to me. It's practically my second home, and the breeding ground for all my essays. But the silence in there is painful. A rumbling stomach sounds like an earthquake. Eating a packet of crisps will incur the wrath of people around you. And munching on anything pungent is sure to earn you a few evils. I need not mention the culprits who "bagsy" spots in the library, only to disappear for hours, or sometimes even days at a time, to the anger of other students. If you fit into the latter category, shame on you!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Back in the youthful days of first and second year, I was indifferent to the library; I didn't care much for its existence. But now, I've developed a love-hate relationship with it (leaning more towards the latter). Yes - I'm starting to hate on the library even more than usual. First, the horrendous library fines (although I did manage to sweet talk a librarian into halving my fine the other day, because I thought it was unethical to charge me £5.50 for forgetting to hand back a locker key on time…especially because this was a first-time offence, and I didn't even receive a warning email). Secondly, the library gets outrageously busy. Every hour is a peak hour. Unless you fancy sidling in at 4am. I find myself weaving in and out of bookshelves to try and eye up a free desk, but alas, nothing. Unless you plan on arriving at the crack of dawn, you might as well forget it. I awkwardly walk into rooms to see if there are any seats free. People look me up and down, silently saying, "HAHA, that's what you get for rocking up at 10am, lazy fool!"<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MESsYuijDm8/Uvz4FbXcUhI/AAAAAAAABAg/HtSywt1aw7M/s1600/WIZARD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MESsYuijDm8/Uvz4FbXcUhI/AAAAAAAABAg/HtSywt1aw7M/s1600/WIZARD.jpg" height="245" width="320" /></a>On the other hand, the library brings fear, and fear is what I need to bosh out a good essay. In first and second year I would write my essays in bed, propping up a mountain of pillows, and spreading heaps of notes out across my bed. I'd write the essays half dozing, in my jimjams, holding onto a hot water bottle, mug of black coffee in one hand, typing furiously with the other. I'd then run for my life to campus in my oversized hoodie, <b>sans bra on one occasion</b>, to hand in an essay at 3.57pm for a 4pm deadline. It's at times like this that I'm grateful my fitness exceeds that of a slug. I highly doubt I could get mitigation for running out of breath on my way to handing in an essay. Now with the new online 10am submission deadline, no exercise is involved. And no printing, either. I, like many a student I am sure, find printers exceedingly temperamental. Just when I need it to work, it decides to run out of ink. Just when I need it to work, it decides to get a paper jam. It's like the printer can feel the tension mounting up inside of me, and takes the opportune moment to break down and crush my sanity. So off to the print shop I would run…but oh wait, there's a queue…and the computers there take 5 minutes to log on. Splendid. So yes, I am indeed grateful that I can now send off my essays from the comfort of my bed.<br /><br />One thing that hasn't changed? I still pig out in the final stages of essay writing. We're talking chocolate caramel digestives, crisps, gallons of iced tea….Anything that can take my mind off the task in hand. And usually food does the trick. Yummerz. Although I'm slightly worried my essay-food relationship will become problematic when I'm writing my dissertation. The plan is to graduate with a 2:1, not love handles.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kge1aVofrXo/Uvz1r8-ot0I/AAAAAAAABAU/gt_40PDozkc/s1600/cat+essay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kge1aVofrXo/Uvz1r8-ot0I/AAAAAAAABAU/gt_40PDozkc/s1600/cat+essay.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>But fourth year far exceeds first year in many ways. I know who my great friends are, I'm going out less (that's good right?), I'm tee-total (not as boring as it sounds), training for the Rock Solid Race (nothing like a good challenge), and applying for grad jobs in PR (I actually know what I want to do with my life, which makes a change from my 18 year old self!) Life has forward momentum - everything I do is leading up to something. First year was fun, but I felt like a small fish swimming around frantically in a big pond. Now, I feel like a big fish, ready to enter an ocean of opportunities.</div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-83181751646868870042014-01-15T16:41:00.000+00:002014-01-21T00:33:11.012+00:00Miley Cyrus: She Was Never A Role Model<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CgFwpGY4z44/Utamw_BHucI/AAAAAAAAA-w/vIKK4n7Rz_0/s1600/gothis+peacock.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CgFwpGY4z44/Utamw_BHucI/AAAAAAAAA-w/vIKK4n7Rz_0/s320/gothis+peacock.jpg" height="260" width="320" /></a>I only wish that the deterioration of Miley Cyrus was old news, but it really isn't. Frankly, I'm getting bored reading the same old articles being spewed out about her on a daily basis, so I've decided to come up with my own theory on the matter. Essentially, Miley Cyrus is an awkward caterpillar. She tried to turn into a butterfly far too quickly, and in doing so, found herself dressed as a gothic peacock ("I Can't Be Tamed") and straddling a wrecking ball (thankfully not simultaneously). Not surprisingly, the premature transformation from pre-pubescent caterpillar to dazzling butterfly didn't happen too gracefully; in fact, we are still witnessing the graceless transformation. However, I have a few (conflicting) thoughts to add to the pot...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I hate the fact that society is trying to find role-models in celebrities. Why? Because all we see of celebrities is the watered-down, over-elaborated, third-hand, recycled information about them. "A friend close to the source said that Miley was considering…blah blah blah". Listen - this "friend" doesn't exist. They might as well be called "a journalist's brainchild". It's like we're desperately trying to find and create role-models out of fictional entities who never existed in the first place. Because whether you like it or not, what you read in the press about our dearly beloved celebrities is far from the truth. Now I'm not trying to say that newspapers and magazines go about writing BS about celebrities all the time (although I know for sure that some of them do…*cough* mail *cough* online), but why would a celebrity in their right mind decide to tell the whole world how they "truly" feel? 'Cos that stuff's personal. I bet your bottom dollar that most of the stuff we read is either made up, or taken out of context due to ulterior motives, and lack of real news. When a photo of a celebrity gets taken, it's all about the "guessing game" - the amount of make-up they're wearing or not wearing could be the basis for a story. The fact that they're walking the dog "alone" sans boyfriend, obviously means they've broken up, right? That "mystery man" standing next to Cheryl Cole is obviously her new beau, yes? We have to stop guessing and pretending we know all about these people, when we clearly do not. Oh, you're a body language expert are you? You think you know everything about someone's life just because of one photo?&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Riu4X2lNbSQ/UtamZe3jVhI/AAAAAAAAA-o/GfHHj5VtDyU/s1600/robin+thicke.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Riu4X2lNbSQ/UtamZe3jVhI/AAAAAAAAA-o/GfHHj5VtDyU/s320/robin+thicke.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>Whether it's the way we dress, the parties we choose to go to or not go to, the music we listen to, the charities we support - there's always going to be a conflict between doing it to be true to ourselves, and doing it to boost our image (whatever that image might be). But it should be about the reason <i>behind </i>doing things, rather than the action itself. Giving someone a gift because you want to coax them into helping you with an essay, is not the same as giving someone a gift because you value them as a friend, and want them to know that. Same gift, different meaning behind it. Whether it's a Gucci handbag, or a lollipop - it's all about the meaning <i>behind </i>it. Which leads me to say this: I don't really care that Miley's licking a hammer, riding on a wrecking ball naked, dancing around with life-size teddies on stage, or whatnot. But I do care <i>why. </i>The whole world has been guessing. They've been trying to pigeon-hole her in different boxes which attempt to explain exactly <i>why </i>she's acting the way she is. "She's a slut"; "She let the fame get to her"; "She's trying to empower herself". But we haven't actually heard <i>her</i> side of the story. And I don't know if we ever will. Sure, she's fought back on Twitter and made a few feisty responses, but I very much doubt that she could sit face-to-face with someone and explain <i>why </i>she wanted to create this image. All in the name of art? I think not.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rkyi2PbPZn0/UtanCnGHglI/AAAAAAAAA-4/8s5kecVSsXI/s1600/wrecking+ball.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rkyi2PbPZn0/UtanCnGHglI/AAAAAAAAA-4/8s5kecVSsXI/s320/wrecking+ball.jpg" height="173" width="320" /></a></div>Maybe she wants to be "different". She wants to shock. It gives her a high. And if that involves being a hammer-licking, naked-on-a-wrecking-ball, tongue-sticking-out, foam-finger-in-my-crotch sorta-girl...if that's what "floats her boat"...if that's her way to mark herself as "different"... then, well, let her do it. At the end of the day, nothing we say or do is going to change that. It's only going to fuel her into greater depths of insanity. Do you really think Miley's going to say, "Wow, thanks so much Kate Winslet, Sionead O'Conor and all those other people who told me I was prostituting myself. I had no idea. You've totally put things in perspective for me!"? And the reason why she won't do that? Because it takes one hell of a strong person to admit that. And my thoughts are, she isn't so strong as she keeps telling everyone. It's not easy telling the whole world who've been hawking on you your entire life, that you are in fact "wrong" and that you despise the way you've been negatively selling yourself. She's clearly nothing more than an attention seeker, and by us constantly responding to all of her "attitude", she's getting what she wants. By acting insane, thousands of people end up writing articles about her, she becomes a Google sensation, and her salary just keeps rising. I mean, there's gotta be a reason why Marc Jacobs recently brought on Miley for his fashion campaign? There's something so titillating about the controversy that she's causing, that despite ourselves, we just can't get enough of it. Another reason is that anyone insane enough to think licking a hammer or riding naked on a wrecking ball is normal, is probably not "sane" enough to think otherwise. The more we say "STOP MILEY!", the more she'll respond with her infamous lyrics "WE CAN'T STOP!" So if she wants to swing on that wrecking ball, let her swing on it to her heart's content. One day, she'll get bored. Or fall off.<br /><br />In today's society, it's because commonly accepted that we should want to 'mimic' celebrities, which is probably why Miley has been accused of being manipulative and a bad role model. Their fashion sense, their pets, their diets, their exercise routine. Yet if Miley goes to pilates twice in a day, she's described as obsessive and a bad role model because she's too weight-orientated. People start sending her threatening and aggressive tweets, accusing her of being anorexic, a bitch, or fugly. When you come to think of it, the people writing all these comments are far worse than Miley. These comments suggest that we believe, as "normal" humans, that we have the authority to dictate what a perfect celebrity should look or act like. WE decide how many times it's acceptable to go to pilates, WE decide if their diet is too extreme, WE decide if they are good people. Imagine if YOU went to pilates twice in a day and everyone started hating on you. How would you feel if people commented on your photos saying you look like a horse, have a monstrous nose, or the grace of an elephant? Again, who are we to decide what people should act like or look like? This is a free world, yet we abuse our freedom of speech. Celebrities aren't like robots. We can't control them, or tell them how to act.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3CU49HCWTWg/UtanP8Cg5TI/AAAAAAAAA_A/xKP2yonkBo0/s1600/rihann.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3CU49HCWTWg/UtanP8Cg5TI/AAAAAAAAA_A/xKP2yonkBo0/s320/rihann.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>Take Rihanna. Her relationship with Chris Brown was all over the press. When she ended it with him, she was deemed a role model for women in abusive relationships. Yet as soon as she took him back, everyone thought she'd let the world down. Just because Rihanna decided to momentarily get back with an abusive ex, does that suddenly mean that every single other woman in a similar position is going to do the same, or&nbsp;<i>should</i>&nbsp;do the same? Certainly not. I'm not saying that Rihanna should or should not have reconciled with him, but humanity can't blame her for the consequences. It's not Rihanna's problem; it goes much, much deeper than that. Why should what one woman does with her boyfriend, affect us? Why should we live our lives akin to Rihanna, or Miley?<br /><br />The domestic goddess Nigella Lawson I'm sure disappointed (or even outraged) a few when they realised her culinary genius came with a line of cocaine. But I'm trying to crack (no pun intended) this "disappointment". &nbsp;This doesn't suddenly mean we should start swapping flour for cocaine when we next bake a cake, just because Nigella fancied it. Why are we disappointed? It's not like we honestly knew any of these people. Go ahead and be disappointed&nbsp;<i>for&nbsp;</i>the person…be disappointed <i>for </i>Nigella or Miley. But don't be angry at them for the bad messages they're sending out. If you decide you want to mimic their actions, then that says more about <i>you, </i>than it does about them.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ySbofbwKp_M/Utanic2i4jI/AAAAAAAAA_I/AogTbIJwtMY/s1600/nigella.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ySbofbwKp_M/Utanic2i4jI/AAAAAAAAA_I/AogTbIJwtMY/s1600/nigella.jpg" /></a>And as far as Miley's behaviour is considered wrong (because apparently she was/still is a role model for young girls), how did she even earn the honour of being a role model in the first place? Plus, it's not like she said "I'm a role model for young women." WE decided we wanted her as a role-model, and naturally, she let us down. All she did was take on an acting role in a show on Disney Channel. She's no superwoman. Let her solve world poverty, and then we'll talk.<br /><br />So this leaves me with one final point: Miley Cyrus is not a role model, never was, and never will be. As a Christian, I believe the only person worthy of being called a role model is Jesus. Whether you believe in him or not, the New Testament describes a man who was faultless, loving, gracious, and sinless. Whether you believe he's the Son of God, just a random man who lived a good life, or think he's made-up (except there's more proof that Jesus existed than Julius Caesar if you know your history), you can't deny that his actions make him the ultimate role model for each and every one of us.</div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-62600749857804627122014-01-09T22:26:00.001+00:002014-01-09T22:30:52.477+00:00Swab for Margot & Help Save A Life<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/2-Y71G4JIR0" width="480"></iframe><br /><br />I saw article on a friend's Facebook page about Margot, and it encouraged me to get a swab test and see if I could be a potential donor. To be able to help another human being is one of the greatest things any of us can do. So please - if you're as moved as I am, sign up. You could make a difference to so many lives.Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-29754884104711492962013-12-31T13:36:00.003+00:002013-12-31T15:23:14.413+00:00Finding Love On Tinder<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZRVqmnv2fAw/UsH56pLNFeI/AAAAAAAAA8o/zzEH1ab3OHI/s1600/tinder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZRVqmnv2fAw/UsH56pLNFeI/AAAAAAAAA8o/zzEH1ab3OHI/s320/tinder.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">One word: Tinder. AKA the fabulously cringeworthy and seedy dating app which has recently taken the UK by storm. And Exeter hasn't missed out on the "fun" either...Maybe I'm in the minority here but I don't really see the appeal, <i>at all</i>. Here are 10 bullet points which explain exactly&nbsp;<i>why </i>I think it's a waste of time and phone data...</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1) It encourages people to be shallow</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">2) It encourages laziness</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">3) It'll make you paranoid</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">4) It's addictive</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">5) You suddenly become boring because all your "chat" revolves around tinder conquests</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">6) You forget how to act in real-life social situations because you realise you can't swipe left or right</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">7) Somehow it's now considered OK to use a dating app, even if you're in a relationship</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">8)&nbsp;</span>You might get tinderitis: (n) the harmful side effect of incessant use of the smartphone app - Tinder. Often diagnosed by a flat battery, blowing your data allowance or a ruined index finger or thumb tendon.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">9) Its tagline is "It's like real life, but better". Surely your life would have to suck big time for a silly dating app to be better than real life? Do I smell a whiff of arrogance, Tinder?&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C1P50Y0zEeE/UsLHz4fwVqI/AAAAAAAAA9Y/_bpmWUgIzdM/s1600/akward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C1P50Y0zEeE/UsLHz4fwVqI/AAAAAAAAA9Y/_bpmWUgIzdM/s320/akward.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">10) If you do get a match, and the person responds, chances are a) they look nothing like they do in their photos, b) you confused him/her for his/her hotter friend who appears in all the pics, c) if they do initiate conversation, they'll probably call you "babe", d) how do you know it's not a prank? (which leads back to point 3 about paranoia).</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tinder encourages people to base their "worth" or "value" on the number of matches they get. It's the epitome of superficiality. Why let the world, AKA a bunch of horny students in a 3 mile radius of you, define your potential? So limiting.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I read an article recently on <a href="http://www.businessinsider.com/tinder-trending-feature-almost-launched-2013-12">businessinsider.com</a> which spoke about how Tinder was thinking of introducing a "trending tool..that highlighted the most popular users on the app at any given time." Imagine how awkward that would be? This algorithm takes into account how active you are on tinder in terms of matches, messages sent etc. So while you're telling all your friends that you hardly use tinder and that it's "just for bants", they may not believe you when you're heading up the leader board on the "trending users" page. Not so subtle now, are we? As one person said: "Ordering a date is pretty much as mundane as ordering food"…But then again, maybe you're quite picky when it comes to ordering food. Maybe Tinder is your opportunity to pick out the caviar from the baked beans in life. Your Sainsbury's Taste the Difference from your Basics.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnSRGov6BgA/UsLEm5nLp-I/AAAAAAAAA9M/vzyplZOCRsE/s1600/tinder+meme+napoleton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnSRGov6BgA/UsLEm5nLp-I/AAAAAAAAA9M/vzyplZOCRsE/s320/tinder+meme+napoleton.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">"But it's just a bit of fun" you say, or "I do it for shiggles because it's hilaaaarious". My response to that? The majority of us already waste enough of our precious time on Facebook connecting with semi-real friends, that wasting more of it on a site like Tinder with non-friends seems absurd. It's like "Take Me Out" for smartphones. You can't share anything about your life with the other person until you've decided that you "like" what you see. And the likelihood is, you'll just end up being disappointed when their picture-perfect face doesn't have a personality. And all that time spent getting excited about your match could have been better spent investing in more worthwhile activities. Like getting out of your room and meeting people in real-life circumstances.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm not for a second trying to undermine the importance of physical attraction - hell, you've GOT to be attracted to someone for a stab at a relationship. If all you're thinking about is putting a paper bag over your significant other's face, then something's not quite right. Maybe swiping someone's face on Tinder is a method of filtering out, of selecting the best gene pool for your future sprog - but how would you feel if someone came up to you in the street and slapped you across the face because they didn't like what they saw? I guess the "beauty" of Tinder is that you can do all that from the comfort of a screen, without knowingly hurting anyone's feelings. But still - it encourages people to stare at someone else's face for a long amount of time and decide whether this person is "good enough" for them. The next time I hear someone say "I'm SOOOO out of his/her league", I'm going to roll my eyes. Did people never learn that there's no such thing as leagues? If there's going to be a league of any sort, there should be a league to distinguish the nice people from the arse holes, not the&nbsp;aesthetically pleasing from the less beautiful.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-POlBihtihvY/UsLDMgmB3hI/AAAAAAAAA84/e7kJKQ7Tqd8/s1600/photoshoppppp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-POlBihtihvY/UsLDMgmB3hI/AAAAAAAAA84/e7kJKQ7Tqd8/s320/photoshoppppp.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Let's be honest: our profile pics on Facebook tend to be our best. If you're picking 4 gorgeous pics of yourself where you've gone crazy with photoshop and removed pimples etc., just think about the pressure you're putting yourself under if you do finally meet your date. And if you're treating Tinder purely as an "online only" adventure without physically meeting up, any matches you get are probably because the guy likes the 4 best pics you've ever taken of yourself. He's liking a construction of you. That feeling might make you flutter or make you happy. But when you look at yourself at 7am in the morning with no makeup on, greasy hair and bags under your eyes, you want to be with someone who can see all this, and still want to be with you, no matter what. (Tip: If you&nbsp;</span>haven't<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;quite got the hang of photoshop - see photo on left - there's</span>&nbsp;an iPhone app called Pixtr which is designed to make pictures of yourself more beautiful. Say what??)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you're single, and this thought is depressing you, please do NOT resort to Tinder. It is attention-inducing and utterly repulsive. Fair enough if you're age 30 - online dating might be your thing. But please don't be sucked into this completely irrelevant and annoying app which only promises awkward confrontations and deception. If that's your thing - by all means, lap it up. But I'll only say "I told you so" when things don't go quite the way you planned….</span><br /><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><br /><div style="orphans: auto; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0px; widows: auto;"><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">NB: Maybe you just want to use it for hooking up with buff people, in which case, by all means, the platform is yours.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">NBB: For all the overly-sensitive readers out there, this is supposed to be a slight exaggeration on my real feelings.</span></div></div></div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-77978412427504540122013-12-20T19:19:00.003+00:002013-12-20T19:35:55.132+00:00Snaphatting "Uglies" and Beyond<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4qEIZFvw7PY/UrSWEAD4-mI/AAAAAAAAA8A/W_kGag8-FlQ/s1600/iphone-and-his-geeky-friend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4qEIZFvw7PY/UrSWEAD4-mI/AAAAAAAAA8A/W_kGag8-FlQ/s320/iphone-and-his-geeky-friend.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Ever since joining the iPhone brigade (I decided that having a Blackberry for 3 years wasn't doing any favours for my social life), I have been taken aback by all the shamazing (thanks Scherzinger for that one) apps I can download in a matter of moments. My silly little crapberry (oh hey autocorrect, stop trying to change it to "cranberry" - that's just insulting!) which unsurprisingly enough, died a most agonising and drawn-out death, is now sitting powerlessly (literally) in my bedside table drawer. Why won't I throw it out? Oh ya know…brings back memories of those times when the battery used to fall out of the back and of me yelling at it to come back to life. #classiccrapberrymoments</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">And my iPhone (albeit the 4 because I'm stingée) provides much more amusement than my Blackberry ever did. I mean, trying to Google something on a Blackberry is about as fast as snail with a limp. And who uses BBM now anyway? That's soooo last year (and beyond). But now, thank heavens, my eyes have been opened to a whole new world of Apple (you know what the doctor says about apples..), which means loads of fun apps to keep me in touch with my sociable side...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ouzS0EdqBwo/UrSX21hR7HI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/GXtkmVJsbo4/s1600/snapchar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ouzS0EdqBwo/UrSX21hR7HI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/GXtkmVJsbo4/s200/snapchar.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>My current 'fave' has to be snapchat. I think it's the fact that it's just so simple to use - it cuts to the chase. It doesn't try to over-complicate photo or video sharing or bring in fancy new design features unlike some of its competitors (touch wood/maybe I'm missing out on all the advanced snapchat features cos I iz stoopid). Unlike instagram which involves turning every moment into one of grainy nostalgia, snapchat records moments as they are, dependent on your quality of camera. And the best bit? Those moments are only available for your friends to view for up to 10 seconds! WARNING: if you place yourself in the "I like to send drunken snapchats" category, then this can be incredibly dangerous because you'll have literally no record of its contents on your phone in the morning.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>My new favourite procrastination method is sending "uglies" to members of my family and/or best friends. Of course these "uglies" (i.e. incredibly repulsive selfies) are rarely shared with anyone bar those closest to me. Why is this? Oh you know, the fear that they might get into the hands of a boy I fancy and ruin any chance at a romantic liaison…and I trust my family to love me, even when I'm sporting five chins and rabbit teeth. Although I was slightly put off when I received an update from snapchat, informing me that a few of my "uglies" had been "screenshotted" by said individuals. Let's hope they don't come back to haunt me later on in life…</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jd7crXMY8e0/UrSW-SWYZ-I/AAAAAAAAA8M/LcWI3b1FH0A/s1600/selfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jd7crXMY8e0/UrSW-SWYZ-I/AAAAAAAAA8M/LcWI3b1FH0A/s1600/selfie.jpg" /></a></div>And most recently I decided to hold an in-house "Miss Mount Bures" (the tiny village I live in) competition. Each one of the lads (aka the sisters - moi, Sash &amp; Rejay) made a 10 second video application via snapchat on why we thought WE should be crowned "Miss Mount Bures". The competition was (slightly) rigged since I was the judge, so, naturally, I sent them back "refused applications" because they didn't fit the "really really good-looking" criteria (Derek Zoolander style). I thought the whole thing was hilarious and cracked myself up in the process. The things one does to avoid essay writing…pfft. #procrastinationbaby.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But imagine a world where you had to impress a future employer over snapchat. Job applications would no longer be the long, drawn-out applications they are today, but rather, a 10 second statement or film of some sort to explain why YOU have what it takes to be the next top dog. &nbsp;Nope, I'm struggling to imagine it too…So in the mean-time, I'll stick to sending uglies to my sisters. And hope that I don't accidentally tick the wrong name and send it to a real-life hottie...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-60799910599122574612013-11-23T17:17:00.002+00:002014-04-24T19:10:33.113+01:00Free Haircut On Twitter: Is It Worth It?<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rCS1mbLV8FU/UpDe1C_go1I/AAAAAAAAA7U/mP_vdf5f7NQ/s1600/weird+hair.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rCS1mbLV8FU/UpDe1C_go1I/AAAAAAAAA7U/mP_vdf5f7NQ/s320/weird+hair.png" height="320" width="287" /></a>I'm pretty attached to my hair. I think most women can empathise with me on this one. Hair can make or break a woman. Seriously. A bad haircut or a style or colour that doesn't suit you, will have you feeling down for as long as it takes to resurrect the hair-rific situation. Which is why it's never a great idea to trust any old person with a pair of scissors. I've cut hair before and it's no easy task. So don't you dare get anywhere near me unless you've got five pages of qualifications under your belt.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Given the above paragraph, you may be surprised to read what I'm about to write. Those of you who have been following my rather dramatic Facebook updates recently will know that I had a good few inches hacked off my head. I use the verb "hack" because the guy essentially put my hair in a ponytail and cut right across it. The ponytail fell to the ground…All 6 or 7 inches of it. A lot, given I'd initially asked for about 3.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A little backstory: I was on Twitter and received an update about some hairstylist in the Exeter area who had recently started 'following' me. I went onto the profile and saw something about free haircuts. Being the bargain hunter that I am, I thought "why the hell not?" I had so many split ends and my hair desperately needed some TLC and I wasn't feeling wealthy enough to splurge out on a £35 haircut in a salon. Not to mention my last haircut which cost me an extraordinary £65 in London (no colour, no highlights) - just a cut and blow-dry. That sort of money doesn't just grow on trees. Anyway, I tweeted the stylist and received a reply almost instantly, asking whether I was free that afternoon at 5:15. Luckily I was and he said he would drive over and do it from the comfort of my own home. What service. The only thing I needed to do was wash my hair in advance so that it was still damp when he came to cut it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--tYypT8s8sc/UpDfNbGn0JI/AAAAAAAAA7c/aGr17OKxRTM/s1600/hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--tYypT8s8sc/UpDfNbGn0JI/AAAAAAAAA7c/aGr17OKxRTM/s320/hair.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a>He arrived 5 minutes late and I'd set up a chair in the lounge. I needn't have because he instantly suggested doing it in my bedroom. Slightly shocked at first, I agreed. He didn't want to be in anyone's way. Understandable I suppose, but he was nonetheless a strange man, coming into my house, specifically my bedroom. He was young, 24, and I asked him about his experience. Apparently his mum is also a hairdresser and he'd studied it at college. I told him what I wanted and showed him some photos and he seemed to get the picture. But when he started touching my hair, I became increasingly nervous. He didn't seem to have much confidence in the way he was holding it. He told me he was going to put my hair in a ponytail and just chop across it. I had a moment when I thought "hang on a sec, is this guy actually legit? Or did he lose a bet?" I thought perhaps this was some sort of awful hoax - that I'd been duped into believing this guy had any qualifications whatsoever. Was I actually going to let him do this? I felt a mixture of fear and guilt. He'd supposedly driven 45 minutes to get here. If he was (contrary to what I thought) actually legit, how could I just dash his dreams like that? I stayed in my seat, shivering slightly. I started contemplating what sort of wig I'd have to buy after he'd done away with my locks.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When he started to chop off the ponytail, it sounded like he was snipping upwards towards my scalp...all my hair...completely off. I almost screamed but bit my tongue to stop myself. I was nervous, frightened, wishing I could go back in time. He continued cutting, again, with little confidence. It seemed to me that the layers he was chopping were completely at random. A cut here and there. Nothing too specific. Just a few jagged edges. I made it clear that if he messed up, I'd be a miserable human being. He was beginning to feel the pressure, and he told me. Hearing a hairdresser say "I feel under a lot of pressure" isn't the most comforting of thoughts.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I hadn't been looking in a mirror so had no idea what it would look like. A brave move. I suppose I wanted to trust him, or perhaps I was too scared to watch his amateur attempt. When it came to looking at the finished product, I paused, breathing heavily. &nbsp;It felt like that moment when you receive an essay back and you're too scared to look at the mark; the feelings of dread and anxiety, mingled with excitement and intrigue. I inched closer and closer towards the mirror and finally when I saw my reflection staring back at me, I almost screamed. Not necessarily because it looked awful, but mainly because it was just <i>so </i>much shorter than I'd wanted. We'd decided on a long bob, and this was far from it. This was verging on bowl cut (OK maybe a slight exaggeration) and I couldn't believe it. I smiled, one of those fake smiles, and thanked him.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2PpZdCze8cM/UpDd2glSv1I/AAAAAAAAA7E/aEr7zsyxLxk/s1600/MONTANA+HAIR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2PpZdCze8cM/UpDd2glSv1I/AAAAAAAAA7E/aEr7zsyxLxk/s320/MONTANA+HAIR.jpg" height="293" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When he left, my housemate came in. After complimenting me on the new "do", she asked if it was meant to be asymmetric. Sorry, what? "Well, the right side is definitely longer than the left" she commented. "Surely he did it on purpose?" she continued. "You know, like Victoria Beckham?" I looked in the mirror and suddenly noticed what she was talking about. It genuinely was. I'd been given one of those awful, lopsided haircuts that only feature on those "BEST FAILS OF 2013" websites. The layers also didn't seem to blend in particularly well and random chunks of hair were sticking out. OH wow. I immediately called him but he simply responded with "I don't know what to say". Isn't it obvious? Surely you'd come back and fix it? I mean, this <i>is </i>my hair we're talking about. He started getting mouthy with me and was completely unprofessional. I went to my desk and picked up some paper-cutting scissors and went to the mirror. Did I trust myself?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Later on that evening I received a whatsapp message on my phone from the guy, asking if I was getting used to the new hair. I explained that I liked it, just that it was wonky which wasn't exactly 'ideal'. He agreed to come over the next evening and fix it, much to my relief. He seemed very apologetic which was nice and I thought that perhaps after all, he wasn't so bad a guy. But apologies soon turned into annoying comments such as "I always knew you'd try to find fault with anything I did", "Did the haircut not deserve a tweet then?", "Can you recommend me?", "Do your friends like it?" The desperation was coming out. It was verging on harassment. &nbsp;It just doesn't seem very ethical to recommend a bad hairdresser, even if it is free. Nevertheless, I became his temporary counsellor. I told him not to lose faith, that he'd get better over time, and that I admired him for going freelance and setting up his own business at such a young age. I told him life was hard and that he'd just have to get used to it. Poor guy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Px25hGopgi8/UpDgh85GhzI/AAAAAAAAA7o/lITarOJvYow/s1600/hair+gif.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Px25hGopgi8/UpDgh85GhzI/AAAAAAAAA7o/lITarOJvYow/s320/hair+gif.gif" height="186" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, long story short…I ended up booking an appointment at Richard Beaumont Salon the next day on Longbrook St which I've been to before. I paid £25 for a hair fix (so much for the free haircut) which involved taking another inch off my right side and neatening the layers (apparently he'd missed a huge triangle of layers at the back of my head). So reassuring. But to his credit, he hadn't completely screwed up. The left side was "nicely shaped" according to the hairdresser in the salon. It was just a shame that he lacked consistency.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So there you have it. If you're going to take anything anyway from this article, it's that you shouldn't trust random hairdressers on social media who try and throw free haircuts at you. Because you'll probably be disappointed. But then again, I enjoyed being a little reckless. When you spend all day in the library, sometimes it's nice to do something a little crazy. And it doesn't always have to involve alcohol.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And because a new haircut is one of the only acceptable times to take selfies (this was actually taken before I went to Richard Beaumont Salon)...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cruU2rLyCI8/UpDeR_BmYMI/AAAAAAAAA7M/rHiswK1k9zc/s1600/montana+new+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cruU2rLyCI8/UpDeR_BmYMI/AAAAAAAAA7M/rHiswK1k9zc/s320/montana+new+hair.jpg" height="320" width="199" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-35733913805006545932013-08-30T12:11:00.000+01:002013-11-14T16:03:23.183+00:00Sex-Deprived Strangers in Paris<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S1DzxqvoY1w/UoNtuVElx4I/AAAAAAAAA60/tezIgYMRvIE/s1600/pervert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S1DzxqvoY1w/UoNtuVElx4I/AAAAAAAAA60/tezIgYMRvIE/s320/pervert.jpg" width="258" /></a>OK so I know this title is a little bit <b>promiscuous</b>, but I'm struggling to come up with another way to describe their irrational behaviour. I mean, maybe "strange" men on this side of the channel are just far more forward than their British frenemies, but despite spending nearly 12 months here (eek!), their unrequited desire to be my lover me still fuureeeaks me out. Let me explain.<br /><br />There are a few places where I believe it is <i>unacceptable, </i>and I mean <i>unacceptable </i>to chat up a woman. This info is clearly not ingrained in some people.<br /><br />1) <b>Public transport. </b>I've already decided that I won't be meeting my future husband on an underground train/metro/subway/tube...or whatever you call it where you come from. This is the actual <i>antithesis</i> of romantic and anyone who thinks they stand a chance is shooting themselves in the foot. It's obvious that all you're looking for is a <i>quickie</i> in the disabled toilet of a skanky tube station, so GET OUT of my face. Exactly the same with buses or night buses. Tapping someone on the knee to ask if they're day-dreaming (best chat-up line ever?) is a no-go too; and tapping someone on the knee to ask if they're Irish (more about this one later), is at the <b>top of the cringe list</b>.&nbsp; Do you really think a sweaty metro journey against a graffited door and piss-stained seats is the time or place for idle flirting?! Yea, me neither.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nsosyuXsTcM/UoNtOw72e_I/AAAAAAAAA6c/YG1uvW7xiEo/s1600/creepy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nsosyuXsTcM/UoNtOw72e_I/AAAAAAAAA6c/YG1uvW7xiEo/s320/creepy.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />2) <b>In the street. </b>You see it in the movies; two people glancing across at each other on a crowded street and they fall in love. Earth to mankind: this is fiction. So for Pete's sake, don't come up to me and ask if I prefer strawberries or raspberries and then proceed to ask me out for a drink at a smoothie bar. It's <i>not </i>going to happen. And don't you dare randomly get out of your car, only to run after me and tell me you like the spirit of my walk. Spirit? Really? It's not going to get you a coffee date, or a phone number. So 4get about it. And pulling your motorbike up to the curb to try to stroke my face and dribble on me is also out of the question. In case there were <i>any </i>doubts. And for the love of Bob, stop calling me "charmante". It's <i>not </i>going to happen.<br /><br /><i> </i><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f64fl0oqqnA/UoNtUu4-oOI/AAAAAAAAA6k/vQ6jBQk5PNE/s1600/come+over.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f64fl0oqqnA/UoNtUu4-oOI/AAAAAAAAA6k/vQ6jBQk5PNE/s320/come+over.jpg" width="299" /></a>3) <b>When you're a waiter in a restaurant</b>. Yes, I'm surprised as much as you are. From asking for my Facebook deets on a receipt, giving me overly-generous discounts, asking me out for salsa dancing, inviting me over for a free glass of Champagne, to following me out of the restaurant to my office...I've had it all.<br /><br />And I wish I could say that the reason behind all "this" is because I look like a modern day Marilyn. Not quite. The truth of the matter is that I am female, and that seems to be a good enough reason to be bombarded with attention. Although I do seem to have particularly rotten luck with attracting the creeps of this world. So women of this world: when a strange man tries to coax you into a cup of coffee, tells you he can show you what a "real French kiss feels like", or starts silent orgasming in the corner while staring intensely at you… RUN AWAY.&nbsp;</div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-34583390762069516492013-08-08T17:05:00.000+01:002013-08-08T21:38:06.806+01:00Le Bal du Moulin Rouge!<div style="text-align: justify;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:HyphenationZone>21</w:HyphenationZone> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>FR</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="&#45;-"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ixMkJRZiFgI/UgO-03MFMNI/AAAAAAAAA40/jHYKnEpnEpA/s1600/nicole.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ixMkJRZiFgI/UgO-03MFMNI/AAAAAAAAA40/jHYKnEpnEpA/s320/nicole.JPG" width="210" /></a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As an avid supporter of the 2001 film of the same name starring my Scottish heartthrob Ewan McGregor and Australian beauty Nicole Kidman, it only seemed natural to be drawn to its namesake and take in the glam and glitz such a place has to offer. You got it! It’s off to the cabaret old chum...!</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Located in the heart of Montmartre (the red-light district of Paris) amidst sex shops selling erotic memorabilia and raunchy attire, the Moulin Rouge (quite literally, the "red fan") is as spectacular as it is iconic. We arrived, 109€ (each) the poorer to a queue which ran its course down the Boulevard de Clichy, lit up with street lamps and the buzz of a crowd slightly stifled by the overbearing heat.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Once the queue started moving we were up and away and flapping our tickets at the door to suited waiters who scoured the room momentarily, decked with oblong tables of four to eight people. The majority of the seats were on the ground floor but I noticed that a cluster of tables had also been arranged on a balcony above. The ground floor surrounded a huge T shaped stage and there was no set seating per se; it really was all down to the attendants to choose where to place you.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I had wanted to dress to the nines for the special occasion; each lick of mascara and stroke of eye shadow had been delicately placed with precision. I was wearing a white dress with a bandeau adorned with golden sequins. The night was all about opulence and extravagance and I was going to be part of it. I was only lacking in long silk gloves and a feather in my hair.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ovv2EDtbLFQ/UgO-eZ_0uCI/AAAAAAAAA4o/9wRVEW98cSg/s1600/montqnd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ovv2EDtbLFQ/UgO-eZ_0uCI/AAAAAAAAA4o/9wRVEW98cSg/s320/montqnd.jpg" width="240" /></a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The waiter smiled at me and my suitor and I gleamed back at him with a needy elegance, as if to ask with the bat of an eyelash to be placed in the most superior of seats. He swung us past various different tables, some empty, some full, before arriving at a half-empty table at the front of the stage. He called me Madame and pulled back my chair. We'd done it! We'd been seated like royals, with a view matched by none.&nbsp; It wasn't long before our Champagne arrived and the cool liquid was bubbling through my veins. Bliss. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The music started and the singers appeared with beads and faux diamonds hanging vivaciously over their slender frames. Each one of them a vision. The costumes were spell-binding; the lavishness, the colours, the feathers and the eccentricity. Each song or dance showcased a new magical ensemble as the troupe of the world's finest dancers performed in bewitching unison against the exotic backdrop. Their bodies moved like sculptures, chiselled and refined by the hands of an esteemed artist. From birds of paradise to peacocks, the dancers flaunted their costumes in glorious array, much to the excitement of the audience.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Perhaps the biggest highlights of the show were the acrobatic acts in the interludes. The sheer physical strength of the dancers was one thing, but the danger they placed themselves in was what made it even more provoking.&nbsp; The ability to balance their bodies on each other in such a manner that one slight twitch could prove to be fatal meant it was both exciting and nerve-racking at the same time. The control and skill possessed by these select performers was inspiring to say the least. We also witnessed a woman diving&nbsp;into a pool of snakes and watched in horror as she coiled the snakes around her body as she danced amongst them.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZY4b_tw6Dcw/UgO_IvIRHzI/AAAAAAAAA44/KOjZPlNomj8/s1600/bal.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZY4b_tw6Dcw/UgO_IvIRHzI/AAAAAAAAA44/KOjZPlNomj8/s320/bal.JPG" width="227" /></a><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I couldn't say that I was aware of a narrative in the cabaret, but the show was not void of humour or character (the ponies being a definite favourite!) My one criticism would be the slightly 'cheesy' French songs and the fact that the singers were miming to a soundtrack which was noticeable given that we were touching distance from the stage. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>The proximity was fabulous though: the tiniest mole, scar or wink between the dancers didn't go unnoticed.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">One thing which the Moulin Rouge was <i>not </i>was vulgar. Yes, breasts were sometimes on display, but a naked form in itself is not vulgar. It's how you choose to present it. This was art, not profanity.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Next stop (hopefully!): the Paris Opera! </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true" DefSemiHidden="true" DefQFormat="false" DefPriority="99" LatentStyleCount="267"> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" SemiHidden="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Normal"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="heading 1"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 2"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 3"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 4"/> <w:LsdException 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5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style><![endif]-->Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-51503910764517289332013-08-06T15:47:00.001+01:002013-08-06T15:47:07.938+01:00A Phoney's Survival Guide to Dating<h4><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xCaACZ9CHaM/Ue7JCT8PnyI/AAAAAAAAA3I/4vWxD7HAoLQ/s1600/heart.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xCaACZ9CHaM/Ue7JCT8PnyI/AAAAAAAAA3I/4vWxD7HAoLQ/s320/heart.png" width="320" /></a>Him or the idea of him?</h4><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Whenever I fancied someone in the past and had my heart torn in two, I tormented myself with the following question: Do I really like a) <i>him</i> or b) the <i>idea</i> of him? Both can result in tears of frustration; the former results in genuine tears because you are pining after a man who can't be yours/ broke your heart/ doesn't know how ardently you adore him, while the latter tears are because you loved the fact that you had a shoulder to cry on, someone to hang out with when you had nothing better to do, someone to tell you you're beautiful even when you look like you've been pulled through a bush backwards...and now this has been shattered. You're so desperate to be <i>in </i>a relationship that you find yourself loving the idea of the happy couple more than loving your significant other. Essentially, you might have loved the way he made you <i>feel</i>, but you didn't actually love <i>him.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">&nbsp; </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Some women have a habit of falling for people who are just no good for them; too old, too young, too much of a bachelor, too noncommittal, too arse-hole-ish, too wannabe John Mayer or Tiger Woods. I <i>know</i> full well when he's all wrong for me, when I'm treading in deep waters, when I'm only throwing myself into a messy war of runny noses and hysterical comments like "I just feel so empty". You ask yourself how he ever managed to imprison and capture you in what can only be described as a vicious circle of mental turmoil. <i>Him wanting you</i> is the best feeling in the world but sometimes you ask yourself what it is or was about <i>him </i>that made you fall so hard.&nbsp; Do you love<i> him </i>or the <i>idea</i> of him?<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HazpgX-nExE/Ue7JT8gYooI/AAAAAAAAA3Q/w1mgAUB-cYw/s1600/gatsby.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HazpgX-nExE/Ue7JT8gYooI/AAAAAAAAA3Q/w1mgAUB-cYw/s1600/gatsby.png" /></a>I'm reminded of one of my favourite novels: The Great Gatsby.&nbsp; If you've only ever seen the film starring Leonardo DiCaprio, I urge you to go pick F. Scott Fitzgerald's masterpiece off the bookshelf this second. The question we forever ask ourselves throughout the novel (fuelled by narrator Nick Carraway) is the following: does Gatsby actually love Daisy, or does he merely want to recapture the idea of himself which went into loving Daisy? There's no denying (in my opinion) that he did truly love Daisy at one point or another, but over time this love turned into nothing more than a concept.<br /><br />Are you falling for someone for what they represent rather than for who they are? Do you love their soul (as cliched as it sounds) or merely the fact that they fulfill a part of your life which needs fulfilling?<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><h4>The time-bomb of ticking boxes</h4></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />It's funny - I've been on dates where guys have asked me what I look for in a man. The awkward question which results in you lying slyly because a) you don't want to hurt his feelings by describing the polar opposite of him, and b) you don't want to accidentally describe him in case he thinks you're making a move on him. I usually say something along the line of "great sense of humour", "confident but not too full of himself", "down to earth"...I try to steer away from describing looks because while a certain appearance may appeal to me more than others, I'd much rather fall for a man in his entirety than only because he had piercing blue eyes, blonde curls and a strong jaw. I personally wouldn't want to be with someone who was that picky because it's a far cry from the "down to earth" nature which so appeals to me. I'd only be a hypocrite.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xfj2L3LzPvU/Ue7KiiGZ4cI/AAAAAAAAA3g/9kXOROFt4P8/s1600/darcy.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xfj2L3LzPvU/Ue7KiiGZ4cI/AAAAAAAAA3g/9kXOROFt4P8/s320/darcy.png" width="232" /></a>And as the subheading suggests, ticking boxes really grates on me. I know we can all dream up our perfect guy - how he'd look, his personality, his talents, his hobbies - and of course I'm not denying that certain traits may be important, if not intrinsic for a happy relationship, <i>but </i>that doesn't automatically mean that a man who ticks all the right boxes is going to be right for you, nor does it mean that you'll fall in love with him.<br /><br />And searching for the ticking-all-the-right-boxes sorta fella may take forever. In fact, maybe the guy doesn't even exist. So quit worrying about how he's brunette rather than blond, 5'11" instead of 6'2" or doesn't have a stomach so chiseled that he could make chocolate bars melt on it. You can't pull up a list of pros and cons for someone - they're not objects. I mean, imagine a world where human beings were rated, just like products on Amazon. In fact, don't! <br /><br /><h4>Call to Action</h4><br />So stop your wasting time in a relationship where you feel miserable or serial dating losers who only want to pop your cherry.&nbsp; And for Pete's sake: Don't date someone just because they're nice and possess all the qualities of a perfect boyfriend. His "perfection" will only end up getting on your nerves. If you can't find someone right for you right now, enjoy being single and relish your ability to be a little bit selfish. I know I am.<br />&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love... I love... I love you." (Darcy, <i>Pride and Prejudice). </i>Now <i>that</i>, ladies, is true love.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So there you have it. A phoney's survival guide to dating. Or maybe, a phoney's survival guide to singledom?</div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-22099311290930707382013-07-20T23:14:00.003+01:002013-07-21T17:16:03.197+01:00America's Obesity & France's Fast-Food Addiction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QH1gXGh7seg/UesKPI2noII/AAAAAAAAA2Y/uwKD5m4uazs/s1600/APPLE.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QH1gXGh7seg/UesKPI2noII/AAAAAAAAA2Y/uwKD5m4uazs/s200/APPLE.png" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This past year in Paris, I've been surrounded by slim women, in fact, slim people in general. I don't know how they do it - good genes perhaps? But the image of the slender, elegant Parisian woman holds a lot of truth. And when I'm out there working up a sweat as I jog around the Eiffel Tower, I'm stunned to see that it's mainly men who are exercising, not women. Maybe the women exercise within the comfort of their own home, but I have a feeling that a combination of chain smoking, small portions and good genes are the real reason behind their slim physiques.&nbsp; And maybe the fact that on every advert there's a health warning. If there's anyone telling you to eat your five portions of fruit and veg a day or not to snack, it's the French.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My first stop this summer on my American adventure was a six hour layover in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Since the layover was so long, we decided to pass the time in the largest mall in America with its very own indoor theme park. And I'll tell you now - it was something else. Or, as I like to say, sumfin' else.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wqIqskqcG1Q/UesKgJLgQiI/AAAAAAAAA2g/DKRUGLmWdyA/s1600/MALL+OF+AMERICA.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wqIqskqcG1Q/UesKgJLgQiI/AAAAAAAAA2g/DKRUGLmWdyA/s320/MALL+OF+AMERICA.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As we wandered around the mall, the sheer size of the people we came across was worrying. Maybe malls are social hubs for overweight people, but I couldn't get my head around it. Fat kids licking ice-creams larger than their heads or people so overweight that they had to be pushed around in wheelchairs because they couldn't walk. At one point, I saw a man sitting on a bench with his XXXXL t-shirt which still didn't fit him and I noticed his leg was purple and swollen. When he got up to move, I felt pain come over me as I saw the large globules of fat bursting out of the back of his knees. Surely that cannot be comfortable. His head looked so small in proportion to the rest of his body that if I'd have seen a photograph of him, I'd have thought he'd been photoshopped.<br /><br />From beer bellies to muffin tops, I kid you not when I say that 90% of the people we saw were overweight, and many of them clinically obese. In that moment I envisaged a world where everyone was fat; really fat. Where fitness died out and the average person didn't move from their couch because they had everything they needed within their reach. Fridges walked towards them with the click of a remote; people ate and slept in the same seat because they couldn't lift themselves out of it. Automated cranes heaved people from one location to the next.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cC0DaTxm0aA/UesLixjcQhI/AAAAAAAAA24/GzMoDjyldl4/s1600/MUFFIN.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cC0DaTxm0aA/UesLixjcQhI/AAAAAAAAA24/GzMoDjyldl4/s320/MUFFIN.png" width="254" /></a>And another shocking discovery in this mall was the fashion, or lack of it. I know this wasn't Beverley Hills but where the hell is Gok Wan when you need him. Neon trainers and oversized basketball shorts are never a good look. Neither are tight tops which cling painfully over heaving guts, butt cracks on display and cankles: the lack of calf/ankle definition where the two seem to merge.<br /><br />The root of it? Oh where to begin. Free soda refills in every restaurant, the continual fast-food frenzy, the HUGE portions. I remember on our trip to Alaska a few years ago when I ordered a cooked breakfast. My plate arrived and on it I had about 3 fried eggs, 6 rashers of bacon, 4 sausages....and to top it all off, a stack of four large pancakes on the side covered in lashings of butter and Canadian maple syrup. If that doesn't clog your arteries just thinking about it, then I don't know what will. I think it's safe to say that I didn't even manage a third of it. And even just a few days ago when I went for a single scoop of ice-cream in a cafe, the scoop was so large that it could have easily passed for a triple scoop in the UK where in comparison, the portions seem stingy.<br /><br />And I'm not kidding when I say that being fat costs you, and not just because of the amount of food you're getting through. Samoa Air for example charges passengers per kilo. Thus, a 60kg person will be paying a much lighter airfare than the 120kg person sitting across the aisle.&nbsp; Fancy a future where along with baggage, passengers also have to hit the scales to determine their airfare. And before people start getting sensitive over the issue, "Every extra kilogram means more expensive jet fuel must be burned, which leads to CO2 emissions and financial cost" according to Dr Ian Yeoman.&nbsp;&nbsp; </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7S92P8ITLOQ/UesLLGsRBbI/AAAAAAAAA2w/v9MuDBg0CiA/s1600/FAT.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7S92P8ITLOQ/UesLLGsRBbI/AAAAAAAAA2w/v9MuDBg0CiA/s320/FAT.png" width="320" /></a>The sad reality is that the fast-food frenzy has made its way to France, too. A recent survey showed that more French people go out for fast-food than to your typical French cafe or bistro. The shocking discovery shows that 54% of all restaurant sales in France comes from fast-food chains. Part of me is not surprised at all; many (male) colleagues at work spend 4 out of 5 lunches a week at McDonalds, and don't bat an eyelid. For the country which gave the world "gastronomie", things aren't looking too great. In fact, reports have shown that after the U.S., France is the largest consumer of fast-food. But the pressing question is: How do the French stay so slim? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I appreciate that certain medical conditions mean that being overweight is not a choice. But I'd be very surprised to hear that all 75% of overweight individuals in the U.S. suffer from medical conditions which mean that being overweight is uncontrollable.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, would someone please go get me a corn dog with extra mayo, a side of fries and a large soda.&nbsp; I'm starving.&nbsp; </div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-33256445355321109802013-07-15T21:39:00.002+01:002014-10-12T13:27:10.141+01:00Giverny and Monet's Water Lilies<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PSRvcj1tAac/UeRbFyxx59I/AAAAAAAAA1Y/fbtqalBjSok/s1600/P1050124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PSRvcj1tAac/UeRbFyxx59I/AAAAAAAAA1Y/fbtqalBjSok/s320/P1050124.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>So a few weekends ago (yes, I'm a little <i>*en retard </i>in writing this), I went to Giverny, the former home of French Impressionist painter Claude Monet.&nbsp; I could have just called him Monet but after a colleague in Paris asked me who exactly this Monet was, I felt that I should be a little more lucid, in case any of you confused him with the 21st century child rapper Chi Chi Monet. FYI, no relation.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Giverny is located 50 miles outside of Paris in Haute-Normandy and is accessible by train to Vernon followed by a one hour trail walk or 3€ shuttle bus. We picked up some treats from the bakery for lunch before making our way. It was boiling that day which called for factor 50+ suncream and a hat but I don't own the latter so had to make do with rubbing suncream into my scalp. A greasy affair.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hnyyrBEai_I/UeRa9XIQejI/AAAAAAAAA1I/wDaGolsfjao/s1600/P1050153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hnyyrBEai_I/UeRa9XIQejI/AAAAAAAAA1I/wDaGolsfjao/s200/P1050153.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">The trail was nice in the sunshine, albeit a little long and monotonous, and after an hour we were entering the picturesque village of Giverny. The whole village was blooming with brightly coloured flowers and green; so much green. Quaint houses were hidden by c</span>harming gates and mini stone facades. It all seemed so mystical and I cherished the sweet chirping of birds and fragrant scent of roses. So much beauty in one place.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rX3ixhGAWEY/UeRfxfHQSNI/AAAAAAAAA2I/rLuApdxI57A/s1600/P1050189.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rX3ixhGAWEY/UeRfxfHQSNI/AAAAAAAAA2I/rLuApdxI57A/s200/P1050189.JPG" height="127" width="200" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">We couldn't have come at a better time of year.&nbsp; It was none other than breathtaking as we walked down the rows of flowers of every colour imaginable. I drew my camera up to the buds but the end result could not even begin to capture what I beheld. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: black;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-71defytvA2w/UeRaxx2RkFI/AAAAAAAAA0w/ztMGHB5OOGk/s1600/P1050236.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-71defytvA2w/UeRaxx2RkFI/AAAAAAAAA0w/ztMGHB5OOGk/s200/P1050236.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a>We followed the garden down into a small underpass which opened up into the pond. <i>THE </i>pond, with water lilies galore and an abandoned wooden boat which must have been used once upon a time when its owner came out to paint the ladies amongst the water lilies. We crossed a bridge and tiptoed through the gorgeous melange of forest green and vibrant purples, pinks and oranges. Delicate petals, as white as they were pure, clouded together to create a hanging bouquet over the water's surface. Large fish swam lazily through the murky water, just clear enough to see their dark shapes easing through the pond. &nbsp; </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We sidled up to <i>Le Pont Japonais</i>. It really was picture perfect with the branches hanging like a veil of green over the painted green bridge. A large weeping willow stood imposingly on the opposite side of the pond, its gallant arms sulking towards the water. I could see so easily the inspiration this place evoked.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q_8pXX66Sw4/UeRbJkU1VjI/AAAAAAAAA1g/boAhUiF5mj0/s1600/P1050129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q_8pXX66Sw4/UeRbJkU1VjI/AAAAAAAAA1g/boAhUiF5mj0/s320/P1050129.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>We then entered Monet's house.&nbsp; I was initially surprised by his obsession with Japanese art - the endless engravings; the walls were covered.&nbsp; I had felt an immense curiosity to go inside and explore the world of such a renowned artist; to feel an essence of his being which he has undoubtedly left behind. It had such a magical air about it, as if living there would be like living on the pages of a storybook, much like the village itself which seemed so bite-sized; so <i>mignon</i>. I suppose I was charmed by its winding streets and sweeping landscape views, its sereneness and its ability to let your imagination paddle with the water lilies and never look back.</span></div><br />A definite must.<br /><br />*late in French, not retarded Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-23652983106462724372013-07-09T16:44:00.000+01:002014-02-15T18:44:13.185+00:00Katie Hopkins: The Snob Who'd Hate Me<div style="text-align: justify;">It's not often that I stare at my laptop and actually <i>scream </i>in outrage (apart from during an overly tense episode of some trashy TV series).&nbsp; That said, I'm known for being a tad dramatic - scrap that - <i>highly dramatic</i> when it comes to crossing the road without looking (I do this a lot), being tickled or watching Rafael Nadal play tennis.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MfasBRydH-M/UdwvF5O0I2I/AAAAAAAAA0Y/TVkfCqeY_m4/s1600/katie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MfasBRydH-M/UdwvF5O0I2I/AAAAAAAAA0Y/TVkfCqeY_m4/s320/katie.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>It may come a<span id="goog_1882196019"></span><span id="goog_1882196020"></span>s no surprise therefore that whilst watching the hugely hyped interview on ITV's <i>This Morning</i> between controversial social commentator and journalist Katie Hopkins and Holly Willoughby, I was choking on my own saliva. On more than one occasion I had to pause the youtube video and divert my thoughts to a slightly mundane Facebook newsfeed to shake away the contempt towards this woman which was mounting inside of me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let's get to the crux of the issue: Hopkins bases who her children are allowed to play with solely on the child's name.&nbsp; Why?&nbsp; Because apparently the Tylers, Brandons, Ashlees, Charmains and Chardonnays of this world are working class children who aren't fit to wine and dine with her own league-above-the-rest offspring.&nbsp; And not only that - a boy with a name like Tyler <i>never </i>does his homework, spends class-time being disruptive and beats up children in the playground.&nbsp; Such is the way in Hopkins' shallow universe. In a nutshell, her remarks are so unfounded, so excessive and so ignorant that I can't even take offense.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HSlz2Lp_iho/Udwu4PblcyI/AAAAAAAAA0M/vA0ISFOJOt0/s1600/montana+wine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HSlz2Lp_iho/Udwu4PblcyI/AAAAAAAAA0M/vA0ISFOJOt0/s400/montana+wine.jpg" height="400" width="102" /></a>One of the "name categories" she sneered at and labeled unfit for playdates was geograpahical locations (ironic that her own daughter is called India).&nbsp; Being called Montana then, I guess I'm screwed.&nbsp; Although maybe I'd beg at my knees and insist that rather than the American state, I was actually named after the New Zealand wine company (then again, she hates the Chardonnays of this world, so I suppose being named after wine wouldn't improve my situation!)&nbsp; Or perhaps I'd go for the the protagonist from the 1983 film Scarface, or, God forbid it, Hannah Montana (despite her being a year my junior.)&nbsp;&nbsp; Oh wait, <i>she hates celebrity names </i>too.&nbsp; That includes Gwyneth Paltrow's daughter's name: Apple.&nbsp; So I suppose that also cancels out "food" names.&nbsp; There's a chocolate bar called Montana and I recently discovered a Montana bagel in a cafe too.&nbsp; I'm really not doing too well at this game. Oh, and why not hate on the gingers too: <complete id="goog_1315719598">"</complete>Ginger babies. Like a baby. Just so much harder to love." I really am doomed for failure in the Katie Hopkins survival-of-the-fittest guide.&nbsp; And does the fact that my Dad is American make it all the more worse?&nbsp; She's clearly scared of anything mildly exotic. <br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f0a4slDxHYI/UdwudcVdHSI/AAAAAAAAA0E/kjTCz5BUZ48/s1600/clematis+montana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f0a4slDxHYI/UdwudcVdHSI/AAAAAAAAA0E/kjTCz5BUZ48/s200/clematis+montana.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a>Wait, just wait! Her daughter is called Poppy and there's a Clematis called Montana - a vigorous climbing plant. *Dances around wildly*.&nbsp; There is hope!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On a slightly different note; one thing being abroad in Paris has reminded me is that socialising with people from other backgrounds, nationalities, classes, cultures, religions - however you want to divide them - is one of the most fuelling and enriching things you can experience.&nbsp; Katie insist<i>s </i>that fast-tracking&nbsp; - culling people with certain names from your social circles - is a quick way to avoid spending time with people who will be detrimental to your environment and success.&nbsp; But why the desperate need to take a (what I would argue <i>counterproductive</i>) short cut? Life <i>is </i>short which is why young people should make the most of enriching rather than limiting their social circles.&nbsp; After all, no-one comes in or leaves the world less equal to the next. Whether they're called Chardonnay or Matilda.<br /><br /></div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4406791944314477970.post-84413133014031075192013-06-26T22:22:00.000+01:002013-07-09T14:30:13.392+01:00Putain! At War with French Women!<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_2eZFV3xl3s/Uctax-YvfMI/AAAAAAAAAyI/S1eIjlhUXc8/s1600/purain.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_2eZFV3xl3s/Uctax-YvfMI/AAAAAAAAAyI/S1eIjlhUXc8/s200/purain.png" width="200" /></a>Gone are the days where I attempt to be polite on my blog.&nbsp; Being polite is boring. (Disclaimer: If you're French and act like the women I'm about to mention below, you are exempt from this. You need <i><b>politeness therapy</b></i>. NOW!)</div><div style="text-align: justify;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm one of the unlucky bunch who suffers from hay-fever and recently, the pollen count has been ridiculously high and I've been sneezing to hell and back.&nbsp; My nostrils are flaming red after I practically devoured the toilet paper at work, while trying to avoid raised eyebrows from people who think I have an unfortunate bladder problem.&nbsp; I'm sure my colleagues were appreciative of the lovely long strips of white loo roll I spent much of today wrestling with at my desk.&nbsp; My annoying sniffs and continually running nose (if only I had as much stamina as my nose, I'd be an Olympic athlete) meant that I bucked up the courage to do something about it.&nbsp; (Brownie points for initiative?!)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Big supermarkets in France are always useful; you can buy make-up, endless toiletries, medicine.....&nbsp; All the things you can't buy at those trashy little supermarkets like Dia which attempt to sell cardboard in any form and pass it off as anything from pizza to crackers to soap.&nbsp; No joke - I bought some crackers from Dia the other day to smear some cheese on.&nbsp; I opened the packet and they looked like the sort of thing you'd put through a paper shredder and use for your <i><b>hamster's foul pit</b></i>.&nbsp; *Trash*.&nbsp; It's therefore nice to treat yourself to the more up-market places like Monoprix if you want to <i><b>avoid eating paper sandwiches</b></i>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q-oiWIRXOAw/UctbSa2ZmKI/AAAAAAAAAyU/VG_kxB3wWEk/s1600/witch.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q-oiWIRXOAw/UctbSa2ZmKI/AAAAAAAAAyU/VG_kxB3wWEk/s320/witch.png" width="320" /></a>When I was in there today, I waltzed over to the "mini-pharmacy" section to find some blister plasters for my feet.&nbsp; I recognised at once the compede plasters I used for my Duke of Edinburgh Bronze Award but I still wanted professional advice before parting ways with my well-earned dosh.&nbsp; I spoke to a lovely man who was very helpful and didn't mind that I didn't know the word for 'blister' in French and we managed to get a good conversation going before I decided to choose the compede.&nbsp; I thanked him for his time and he continued with his work.&nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I then sneezed and remembered I needed to pick up some hay-fever tablets.&nbsp; The man had disappeared so I approached another woman in the vicinity and started speaking to her.&nbsp; She looked at me with such a <i><b>judging mixture of disgust and confusion</b></i> that I thought for a moment I'd accidentally approached a customer.&nbsp; I told her I didn't know the word for hay-fever in French but I tried to describe the symptoms and said it was an allergy to pollen.&nbsp; She just stood there staring at my face with <i><b>contempt</b></i>.&nbsp; I mean, it wasn't like I'd asked her how to cure <i><b>vaginal warts</b></i>.&nbsp; Seriously. She then muttered something under her breath about going to a pharmacy before I did one of those fake smiles and thanked her for "wasting" my time.&nbsp; When I waited in the queue to pay, I did that thing where you just<i><b> stare and stare and stare</b></i> at someone when they're not looking at you, hoping your eyes might just burn into the back of their head and cause them to keel over and <i><b>choke on their own depressing existence</b></i>.&nbsp; Bit harsh maybe?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dPqWsa9EVho/UctagIDevxI/AAAAAAAAAx4/K7s0-EG-3iE/s1600/looool.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dPqWsa9EVho/UctagIDevxI/AAAAAAAAAx4/K7s0-EG-3iE/s320/looool.png" width="314" /></a>Last weekend I was in Normandy and found myself in a touristy shop which had a clothing department upstairs.&nbsp; As I walked up the stairs, I noticed a gorgeous trench coat on one of the mannequins and simply fell in love.&nbsp; I don't actually own a trench coat and despite it being summer, the weather's been so foul that I figured purchasing a trench coat might not be such a bad idea.&nbsp; I walked over to the rail where the coats were hanging and slipped on the <b><i>bright orange</i></b> number after finding my size (yes, it did clash with my hair a little). Before I'd even had a chance to look in the mirror, a lady who worked there condescendingly shouted over to me <i><b>"are you actually going to buy that?"</b></i>, as if I were some random tramp who'd come into the store.&nbsp; I was so taken aback that she actually had the cheek to speak to me like that and make such a <i><b>grotesque judgement</b></i>.&nbsp; In retrospect I should have said: <i><b>"No, I'm not going to buy it.&nbsp; I'm going to steal it and sell it on eBay."</b></i>&nbsp; I stormed off.&nbsp; If my mouth hadn't been so dry I would have spat on her.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My one piece of advice for these women?&nbsp; Do us all a favour and remove that massive rod you have so firmly stuck up your arse. It's giving you wrinkle lines and a soggy disposition.</div>Montana Gerryhttps://plus.google.com/100665547766932184367noreply@blogger.com5